In Due Course
by PhantomProducer
Summary: The only constant in life is change. In the due course of time, the truth of those words becomes harder and harder to ignore. And yet, that isn't to say all changes in life are bad ones. So one man (and hero) will learn, as will his friends, his teammates, and his growing family. AU from "Age of Ultron" on, not Civil War-compliant. Part four of the "Of Time" series. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

****A/N:**** I apologize for putting the author's note at the beginning of the chapter. HOWEVER, I have to put one up to warn newcomers that this is a continuation—the fourth installment, truth be told—of a series I have been calling the _Of Time_ series. They are stories in the Captain America/Avengers sections of movies on FF (and can be found in the My Stories tab on my profile page). Because it is a continuation, I have to warn you also that the character of Holly Rogers (née Martin) and her actions and interactions in this story are not going to make any sense if you haven't read the previous installments. Therefore, I am going to suggest you read them, as this is AU from the MCU continuity, and I have made a few changes that may catch you by surprise later on in the text. Starting with this opening chapter. I know, it's a lot to ask you to read three additional stories before this one, but I don't want you to get too lost.

That being said, allow me to throw in the disclaimer before we get started: I don't own anything from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Honestly, nothing. I also don't own any other pop culture references made in the text, either.

Also, this story is UNBETA'ED. This is mostly due to my personal schedule being a little different from others', and therefore harder to coalesce with someone else's. As such, I do proofread, edit, and restructure my own writing. I try my best, but I am not perfect.

I believe that covers everything. Now, if you're ready to read, please continue...

* * *

The summer heat on the first of August shimmered around the property, the setting sun pulling it away bit by bit. The slate blue house, set a ways from the main road, basked in the evening glow, the trees surrounding it thick and heavy with the lack of breeze. Inside the domicile, though, it was cool and comfortable...temperature-wise at least. The calm and quiet, only disturbed by the low thrum of music coming from the record player, was about to be broken. It was inevitable those days; it was always inevitable in a house that sheltered an infant.

Dinner had been eaten already, the two adults in the home stationed in the kitchen. One, the wife, had finished tapping at her phone, emailing her publisher about the first week's sales of her novel; they were steady, and looked poised to rise once the reviews came out. The father, a tall, strong fellow, raked a hand through his blond hair before scanning over the last report sent to him. Being the head of the world's foremost task force warranted very few breaks, even when he was on paternity leave. Leaning against the counter, he slid a finger idly over the screen of the tablet he had. Moving away from his emails, he began the nighttime lockdown protocols for the property as his partner sidled over to the sink, filling the basins with water.

And then, it started. Sad crows turned into harsh wails within seconds flat, and the peace was gone.

Steve Rogers, once called Captain America and now known as commander of the Avengers, glanced up from his tablet, shooting a look at his wife. Holly was elbow-deep in washing the dishes, a task she'd hoped to complete before the cries started. Unfortunately, that was not meant to be, and together they exhaled slowly as the cries picked up. Scrubbing hard at the stuck-on cheese on the plate in her palms, she blew the stray strands of hair falling from her ponytail out of her eyes before glancing up at him. Pausing in her task, her mouth curled down in a frown for a moment, and she bit her lip.

"'S your turn," Holly pointed out, softening it with a weary grin. With her parents now back home in Minnesota (having stayed several day to help them all settle), it was up to them to begin navigating their new family life. The pace that had been set since the day they'd returned from the hospital was still flowing, though she did know that it wouldn't be that easy later on. Particularly after she went back to work in a few short weeks; folding all routines into one would be a challenge. For that moment, though, it was enough to tackle the house along with the child. Her arms shifted, swirling the soapy water a bit as they moved. Flicking a glance down once more at the tablet in hand, the blond man paged through the security cameras, confirming with sight exactly what they were hearing when he got to the one trained on the living room. Steve put down the device and nodded, leaving the kitchen and the remaining chore of the day in her care. Through the arch and short hall, he walked into the living room where the bouncing seat holding their son was positioned. At about a week and a day old, Grant Rogers was not able to bounce much at all, but he seemed to enjoyed the battery-powered rhythmic shift of the seat, and while his eyes weren't able to focus terribly well, he did stare up at the swinging toys hooked up to it often. Right at that moment, though, he was not pleased with any of it. His small face was screwed up in sorrow, the agony of his life announced to the world. Kneeling down, his father tutted under his breath at him, inwardly hoping that he would calm quickly for bed.

"Okay, buddy. I'm here. Daddy's here," Steve crooned, unbuckling the restraint and lifting the newborn from his perch. Patting his back lightly, he walked them both into the kitchen, fetching up the bottle his wife had warmed prior to starting the dishes. Casting a look to her, he crossed back to the sink, allowing Holly to lean over to plant a peck on the crying infant's head. The utter heartbreak on his little face made her own expression twist sadly, but as she had stated, it was Steve's turn to take care of him. And he would do so, even as he winced in sympathy for the little guy. Taking the baby upstairs to his nursery, the bigger man tried to settle him down. Moving him so that he was resting along his forearm, he held the bottle to Grant's lips. The newborn was having none of it, refusing to latch and continuing to cry loudly. After a couple more tries, he placed the bottle on the dresser, at a loss for what to do.

"It's bedtime, pal," he murmured, taking the chance to get the baby into new pajamas, thinking it could help. When he was changed and the crying continued, he shifted his son until he was upright and laid his head against his shoulder. The shrill wail in his ear was piercing, but he was undeterred. Even as his appeals fell on ignorant ears. "C'mon, help me out, Grant."

As he paced the room, rocking his son a little as he went, he mulled over the options presented to him. The little guy, for once, wasn't hungry before bed, and his diaper was clean (smell test and double check confirmed it). What else could he do, short of asking his wife to come upstairs and take over? Making a third circuit around the small bedroom, he began to hum slightly, the vibrations in his chest and the tone of his voice pitched to soothe the baby. The wails turned into shorter cries, and he sensed that some of what he was doing was working. Stumbling upon another idea, he almost rejected it. Except...except when Holly did it, Grant seemed to soak it in. Going over the the gliding rocker, he sat down, clearing his throat and lifting a shoulder to himself.

"May as well try," he mumbled, adjusting his son to rest more comfortably in his arms. Looking down at the baby, he spiked an eyebrow as the little one's cries rang sharply again. "How about this, fussy-pants?"

Shifting in his seat, the rocker began to glide underneath them as he cleared his throat. Singing wasn't something he did terribly often, but with a howling baby to try and get to sleep, he was willing to give it a go.

" _Seoithín, seo hó, mo stór é, mo leanbh...mo sheoid gan cealg, mo chuid gan tsaoil mhór_ ," he sang, his lower pitch floating out of his mouth. The lullaby from his childhood was pulled up from the depths of his mind, the language of _Éire_ tripped over carefully. The memory of his mother singing it to him whenever he'd gotten sick, or scared, her thin arms curling around the small boy that he was and rocking him (much the same way he was for his son) floated up as he went. His voice was a mite shaky, a little unsure, but grew stronger the longer he went. As he uttered the lines about the white fairies waiting for the little one and how he would be by his side to protect him as he slept, the crying began to peter off. Repeating the chorus twice, Grant finally calmed, the tears of his earlier angst lost as he relaxed in his father's embrace. The lull of Steve's voice and the glide of the rocker pulled the young one deeper and deeper, until finally he fell asleep. Finishing the song, Steve took in a deep breath, the trailing whisper of words dropping away as he slowed the chair and prepared to stand again.

Looking up, he felt his face redden. Holly stood in the doorway, her wavy hair loosened from its ponytail and her arms crossed over her chest. Evidently the dishes had been finished before he could get the little guy down, and she had chosen to seek them both out. Her lips turned up in a grin and her dark eyes sparkled mischievously as she met his gaze. Despite the flush on his cheeks, he managed a smile for her, raising a single finger to his lips to forestall any comment on her part. Nodding agreement, she waited as he deftly rose from the chair, going to the crib and bundling their boy into his nighttime swaddle. His dexterous and close wrapping caused a little yawn to course out of the baby as he slept, but otherwise he remained in dreamland. Clicking on the monitor, he flapped his hand at Holly wordlessly, beckoning her to back out of the doorway. Fan turned on and curtains shut, he finally exited the room, the door clicking almost silently in place behind him.

"Wow," his wife exclaimed softly, stepping forward and sliding her arms around his waist. "I married a triple threat. You can sing, act, and kick ass."

"So long as you don't tell me I gotta dance. For an audience, at least," he stipulated, his fingers brushing languidly along the back of her shirt. Soon enough she turned, gesturing for him to follow her back downstairs. His palm rested against the small of her back as they traipsed down the steps, the record still playing through the speakers. Shrugging off the impromptu performance he'd given, he mumbled, "And it was just...it was nothing. I mean, it put him to sleep."

His last words were meant as a joke, his lips curling to indicate that she should indulge in the humor, too. However, as they both took a seat on the couch, he could see from the shake of her head that she was not having any of that.

"Right. It put him to sleep, thank God," she replied bluntly. She loved their son, of course, but she was grateful for anything that could help the little guy get to bed faster. Nestling into Steve's side, she turned and looked at him. "I really liked it. It was pretty."

He canted his head. "Just somethin' Mom sang to me when I was little."

Reaching up, she combed through the strands of his hair, meekly stating, "I wouldn't object to an encore."

At once he shook his head, a tremor of nerves shooting through his veins.

"Nah, it's...I really didn't do it justice. Honestly," he attempted to excuse himself. Bashfully, he dropped his gaze to his knees, picking invisible lint off his jeans. "You don't want to hear that mess again."

"It wasn't a mess. It was nice," she asserted, batting her eyelashes at him playfully. "Please, sing it again."

That time he didn't verbally answer, instead just looked at her. Sitting up straighter, she dropped the act and tapped his bicep teasingly.

"Tell you what: I'll sing you one, too, if you do," she said, brokering a deal. Off his spiked eyebrow, she raised three fingers up, the salute easily made. "Promise."

The eyebrow rose a little higher. "Not really a fair trade-off, at least not for you. You were actually in a choir."

Holly scoffed audibly at that. "Yeah, in sixth grade."

Steve cupped a palm in the air. It was more experience than he'd had. "Still..."

"Oh, please. You've got experience, too," she said. Instead of confirming where his thoughts went, which was to his USO tour, she instead offered, "What, you think your occasional shower serenades can't be heard?"

Resting her head on his shoulder for a moment, she glimpsed the tick in his set jaw as she nuzzled his neck. Generally, she didn't revert to such tactics, but that day, she was not above doing so. She truly wanted to hear him again; his voice was one of her favorite things about him, and when he sang, it was all the more compelling to listen to.

"Come on, please?" she begged, craning her head back to pout a little at him. Spying that, he rolled his eyes, taking her lower lip between his thumb and forefinger before squishing it slightly. Narrowing her eyes, she tried to frown at him, but he did not relent until she giggled. The stony set of his countenance slid away, his bright eyes shining in the lamp light of the room. Sighing, he squared his shoulders, dipping his chin once in a nod.

"I'm chalking this up to being tired, agreeing to this," he grumbled, shaking his head as she clapped her hands in pleasure. Scratching his neck, he swallowed and sat up straighter. "Just...don't make fun of me until after we go to bed, okay?"

"Steven," she said, her reprimand and rolling eyes not really soothing him. His free hand clenched along the arm of the sofa, and his gaze raked over the bookshelves surrounding the entertainment center. A deep breath filled his chest, then another, and his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. Seeing the real discomfort in his face and the tightness in his shoulders, Holly sat forward, taking his left hand between both of hers and rubbing it. Tipping her head to the right, she suggested, "Closing your eyes might help."

Inhaling sharply, he bobbed his head once more before taking her advice, eyes shut tightly as he drew the courage to start again. It shouldn't have made him nervous; as she had pointed out before, he'd had moments of humming a tune in the shower, or under his breath when a good song was playing. One of the most important parts of his job was his ability to speak, to project his voice and use its nuances to be understood beyond what was being said. But giving a speech and singing a ditty were two very different things in his mind, and doing one made his stomach clench more than the other. Carefully, he let the Gaelic slide over his tongue, the language his mother taught him allowing him to lose himself in the music and let go, a little.

The last strains of the lullaby tripped over his lips after several minutes, the tune disappearing under the one playing on the record player (which had been ignored, for the time being). Slowly opening his eyes, he could feel the burn flushing from his face to his ears, though when he caught Holly's gaze, he saw no censure there. A pleased sigh was breathed out her mouth, and she lightly clapped her hands together again, the applause just for him.

"Uh, well, that's it," he finished, fingers lacing together in his lap and his shoulders hunched when she'd stopped clapping. "I'm no Sinatra, but you already knew that."

Laying a hand on his back, she brushed over the material of his shirt, her genuine smile not fading in the slightest.

"Don't," she countered, not wanting him to get down on himself. "You sounded nice. Even better the second time."

She'd never made her liking of his voice a secret, not since they'd first gotten to know one another. The richness and the baritone slide of his register changed a little when he sang, bringing to mind when coffee was sweetened with sugar. Her thanks came in the form of a peck on the cheek, and his half-smile came to his lips, the pink in his face slowly draining away. Muttering how he would have to translate the lullaby someday for her, he tipped his chin up, letting a smirk grow as his gaze narrowed.

"Now, you."

Blinking, she sat back, a finger running over the scar on her brow as she pulled out her phone and glanced at the clock.

"Oh...it's getting late, and we should probably—"

"Ah, ah," he cut her off, pointing a finger at her before snatching her phone away. Setting it down on the coffee table, he shot her faux stern look. "You promised."

She deflated then, though her lips quirked in amusement. "Figured I'd give it a shot."

Her dark eyes wandered away from him, considering a point on the far wall as she browsed through her mental library of music. Before she could make up her mind, Steve held up a hand again.

"I have one stipulation," he interjected firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "Nothing from that musical you're obsessed with, alright?"

She frowned at that, snapping her fingers in dejection.

"Darn. That one song Burr and Hamilton sing to their kids is a good one, too," Holly grumbled, and he couldn't help but chuckle.

"Even so."

Clearing her throat, she thought for a few seconds before she turned her head partially away from him. Eyes shut, she furrowed her brow as she recalled the lines of her choice. She was a natural alto, with some mezzo soprano leanings (having choral performance majors as roommates in college had helped at least classify her range), and she let the smokey tones flow forth. Obviously not trained, she still managed to hold her own; it could've been worse. Beside her, Steve took in a sharp breath. Her chosen song was something from his day, having become a standard in its own right in the new, modern era they lived in. The echoes of Billie Holiday and Bing Crosby trembled across his memory, along with the tone set in a later album by Mr. Sinatra, the beat his wife took slowing the song significantly. It did not detract from the lyrics, though, and as she sang about the very thought of her love, he found himself swaying in his seat.

When she finished a short time later, she opened her eyes to the sight of her husband, gaze darkened a fraction and hands reaching for her. She accepted his touch, scooting close to him again.

"That wasn't a lullaby," he breathed, the pad of his thumb stroking the line of her jaw as he cupped her chin.

"Never specified that it had to be," she retorted, smile returning briefly as her lids lowered. Bright eyes dropped to stare at her lips for several seconds, before he leaned forward and kissed her. Gently, slowly, he sipped at her lips, a quiet sigh muffled as it coursed out of her mouth. Several minutes passed in that way, lazy kisses petering off slowly when the record finally ran out music and the needle moved away. After the last one, she braced her forehead against his, the touch calming and anchoring them both as they sat in the sudden silence, the ticks and creaks of the house interrupting it rarely. Patting his knee, she murmured, "Well, we aren't gonna be selling out Radio City Hall anytime soon, but I don't think we did half bad."

"Guess not, doll," he concurred, a lopsided grin forming on his mouth. Squeezing his arm, she snatched up her phone from the coffee table, muttering how it had been a long day for both of them, and that going to bed would be a good idea. Both of them got up, each going about the task of closing the house for the night. Steve saw to it that the AI connected to the security of the homestead was linked in, verbal confirmation given as Holly physically locked the front and back door, turning off the record player as she went. Performing a final sweep of the basement (which yielded nothing but the truth that the laundry had to be done the next day), he eventually trailed after his wife, joining her in their bedroom and swapping his clothes for sleepwear. The baby monitor was cranked up, stationed on her side for the night when they both slipped under the covers, lamps snapped off after he shared a good-night kiss with her.

The bliss of sleep was enjoyed for a few hours, only to be shattered yet again. The distressed little wails of their son came through at around four in the morning, shaking them both out of their slumber.

"Your turn," Steve mumbled, the hand he'd laid on her waist in sleep withdrawn as he shuffled back. Groaning, Holly scrubbed the crust out of her eyes, going first to the dresser to swap shirts. Exposing the line of her back, she failed to notice her husband's appraising gaze as she did so. Her nursing shirt pulled down, she turned back to the nightstand, fetching up the monitor and shutting it off, a final cry cut off as the device was silenced. Catching Steve blinking sleepily at her, she leaned forward, planting a kiss on his forehead, the softness of her lips against his skin making his lids close in contentment. A grin curled the corners of her mouth, staying with her even as she left the room, hastening to the baby's crib as fast as she could.

"Coming, Granty. Mommy's coming," she cooed to her child, ready to have her time with their boy despite her exhaustion. Humming under her breath, she readied the little guy for his feeding, and though the Gaelic was impossible to replicate on her tongue at that hour, the hum of the tune easily flowed, the stillness of the night returned in short order.

* * *

 **A/N 2:** So begins _In Due Course_.

See, told you it was AU, what with Steve Rogers having a wife and son...

I had mentioned, in the author's notes of my previous story, _By First Light_ , that I intend the structure of this installment to be a little different. This is a taste of what is to come for the future—instances in Steve and Holly's new life as parents, as well as the developments of the world around a team led by a new Captain America and what happens with them. Yes, I will be including the Avengers, some old and some new, as the story progresses.

Will it be fluffy? Oh, yeah. Will it be cutesy? Yep. Will it have periods of action and drama still? Yes, on occasion, it will have those elements. Will there be allusions and build-up to things from the canon time-line of the MCU? That is my intention, though given that this is an AU, it will not follow canon to the letter. Tonally, I intend for this fic to be a little lighter; the load of the last few installments has been heavy, and after two years, I want it to be a bit smoother (particularly after the previous installment, where nearly every chapter I cranked out had a minimum of 7,000+ words). If none of this is your cup of tea, that is perfectly fine. I wish you well on your reading endeavors. If you are still interested, I look forward to continuing the journey with all of you.

I know it was a shorter chapter this time around in comparison to the past, but just remember, this is only the beginning. Also, be warned that March is going to be a very busy month for me (very, very few days off for me. Yay work and money, boo lack of free time). I will try to update every week, but do not be surprised if updates come every week and a half or so. I will try hard to stay consistent.

The song that Steve sings is an Irish lullaby called, "Seoithín, Seo" (sometimes written "Seoithín, Seotho." I recommend the Shauna Mullin version on YouTube; very beautifully done). And the song I imply that Holly sings is, "The Very Thought of You." Many jazz singers have covered the song since its creation in 1934, but my go-tos for it are Frank Sinatra and Michael Bublé. Nope, I don't own either song. Also, yay Hamilton references. :)

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	2. Chapter 2

Buttoning the last button on his shirt, Steve exhaled sharply out of his nose, his bright gaze darting down over the rest of his ensemble. It was his first day back at work, and he had to appear at least moderately put together. Not able to indulge in the sweats and t-shirts he'd been able to get away with on paternity leave, he inwardly chided himself to suck it up and get over it. Two weeks was a long enough time to look slovenly; that would have to be saved for evenings and weekends exclusively, now. Shaking his head at himself, he turned to locate his boots, catching Holly staring at him from the doorway. She had been downstairs, the sound of the tap turning on and off telling him that she'd rinsed out the breakfast bowls for them both, which was promptly followed by the churning of the dishwasher. With that chore done, and with Grant still calm after his own feeding, she must have felt compelled to come find him. However, he soon realized that her dark gaze was unfocused, looking through him as though he were a pane of glass.

"What?" Steve asked, curiosity and concern taking hold of his voice when he looked at his wife. Jarred out of her staring, Holly shook her head, the crease in her brow smoothed down as she passed her hand over it.

"Just…thinking," she told him, fingers curling around the hem of her sleep shirt. "That's all."

He chuckled at that. "Good thoughts, I hope."

A smirk decorated her lips, and she responded, "Mostly."

"Probably how relieved you'll be to have me out of your hair for a few hours," he joked, giving her a lopsided grin. He may have been returning to work, but she would still be on leave for a few more weeks. In all likelihood, she probably would welcome the chance to have at the house and their son without him getting in the way. A wan one was returned as she canted her head to the left.

"Something like that," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. In truth, she was thinking about the coming hours, in which she would be alone with Grant and the house for the first time since the birth, and the thought was...slightly more daunting than it had seemed mere minutes beforehand. But she didn't allow herself to even consider verbalizing it. As devoted to the family as he was, she knew Steve needed to go back to work, and she would not get in his way. Her neutral mask was adopted, holding steady as he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots one by one.

"I'll call if anything comes up, otherwise I'll be back later," he grunted, shunting them on his feet with a grunt.

"Before dark, right?" Holly jested, but the downturn of her lips and the raising of her eyebrows belied the sincerity of the question underneath it. Steve did not see it, as he was currently occupied with tying his laces, and so merely snickered.

"Send a search party if I'm not back by sundown," he teased, swinging back up. That time, he caught the flash of uncertainty in her gaze, and the prick in his heart could not be pushed aside. Striding over to her, he folded her into a hug, a kiss planted firmly in her hair. "I'll be home before you know it."

Her grip around his tightened, her face buried against his shoulder as she mumbled a response. Neither of them were sure what she said, as it was caught in the folds of his jacket (not even Holly herself could recount what she breathed against him), but given the lack of inflection, he took it as a positive statement. For a long moment, she held onto him, arms wound around him and breathing in the scent of his aftershave, embracing him as though he would not be coming back. Some of the worries of the days when he'd been the captain, the field leader, whispered to her yet again, and it made her blood freeze, even though his new job description contained a lot less danger. The ticks of the clock on the far wall told her she'd been holding on for too long (never mind that he reciprocated just as much, holding her fast and not wanting to loosen his grip).

' _Stop being clingy and weird, girl,'_ she inwardly berated herself. _'Let him go and say good-bye to him like an adult.'_

Slowly, she forced her arms to drop, to free him from her embrace. Nodding once, she left the room, coming back with Grant in her arms as Steve retrieved the last of what he needed for the day. Looped on his arm was his new shield, the pale-painted vibranium glowing even in the early morning light. The little family unit made their way downstairs, the quiet around them a little unsettled as they reached the back door and the shield was set to the side momentarily. Straightening his jacket one last time and doing the pocket pat-down—keys, phone, and wallet were all in place—Steve glanced down at Holly and their boy, fondness in his gaze as he reached out and curled the end of a wavy lock of her hair around his finger.

"Have a good day," she said, shifting the baby up a little and letting her mouth curve up. "Make sure nothing explodes."

"I'll do what I can, sweetheart," he retorted blandly, a farewell kiss pressed to her lips. Bending a little, he smoothed down the fluff of Grant's hair before dropping a peck on the boy's head. "Bye, buddy."

It took a few moments, a few moments in which the sadness of parting and wish to stay warred with the duties and responsibilities he had to attend to away from home inside him. A minute or two passed before he cleared his throat, pulling himself to his full height and fetched his new shield from where it had been resting against the counter. A half-smile was shot to his wife and child, and then he was out the door, a command given to JJ to resume standard daytime security protocols muffled by the closed portal. She stood there for a few moments, holding the squirming infant closely as the distant rev of his truck's engine roared to life. Soon enough came the crunch of gravel and the roar disappeared, leaving them both behind. Sighing, Holly felt heaviness weigh down upon her shoulders, her body physically turning and walking toward the living room, her mind miles away. Striding through the room and up the stairs, going into her son's room to get him changed for the day. Cleaning him up and putting him in a fresh romper, she laid him back down in his crib for a moment. She inhaled deeply as she confronted the fact that she would be on her own for the rest of the day, taking care of everything. Hands braced upon the rail as she closed her eyes, a few shaky breaths taken in an effort to simultaneously calm herself down and psyche herself up.

"Okay, Holly, you can do this…" she muttered to herself, trailing off as she glanced around the nursery. The trash basket needed to be emptied, and a load of baby clothes needed to get in the wash. As well as that, she had some calls to make, both to the office and to her publisher (her coworker Todd had picked up a few projects she was unable to complete, and needed to confer on them when she ahd a moment). There was a lot to do, and she could not afford to put it off. Blowing out a breath, she marched through to the stairs, mumbling, "Even if it scares the ever-livin' out of you to do it all by yourself."

The lurch in her stomach upon admitting the truth to herself presented itself, and only slightly retreated when her attention was occupied by her son's whimpers once again.

 **xXxXxXx**

Arriving at the base that morning, it was like running a gauntlet to get to his office, well wishes and praises for him accompanied by greetings from the agents and techs, from the scientists and desk jockeys bombarding him from all sides. It was something of a relief, for a few minutes, when he arrived on the private floor, chiding himself for not being more amiable but also not really regretting only giving polite nods and very rare handshakes to those who stepped in his path. It wasn't as if he'd had the baby, after all; Holly deserved that praise upon returning to work, not him. Shaking his head, he immediately retreated to the office, the privacy controls turned off so that those who had access to the floor could seek him out. There was a lot to be caught up on, and he would need the aid in doing so.

The members of the team filed in on and off over the course of the day, Wanda and the Vision stopping by to welcome him back before heading off to the training room for some one-on-one bouts (though he spotted the not-so-discreet placement of the android's hand on the girl's waist, and wondered if that would truly be the case). Sam stopped by, Lang in tow, the two men offering sincere congratulations and their personal summations of the last few missions. The Ant-Man and the Falcon inquired after his wife before taking their leave, having received a request from Pietro to discuss some findings the secondary team had stumbled upon and wanting to get it done before it was too late. By the time Bucky came around with his reports and take-out containers of lunch, he felt as though he was about to drown. From felicitations or from the interminable paperwork he would be wading through, he was unsure which.

Barnes, though, merely grinned at his friend, welcomed him back, and admonished him to eat up. The brunet fellow grabbed a visitor's chair for himself, his feet propped up on the edge of the desk and his mouth stretching into a shit-eating smirk when Rogers shot him a pointed look. Indulging in the repast, he unconsciously began to shift in his seat, his spine stiffening and his head half-twisting away. When his blue eyes seemed to center on something that could not be seen for the third time, the ex-assassin tipped his chin up.

"You doing alright, Steve?" he inquired, not sure what had put his friend on edge. Metal fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the arm of the chair, the emptied container being dropped into the can. The sudden noise made Steve's head snap around, and he narrowed his gaze at him. Lifting a shoulder, Bucky waited until true focus came into the blond man's gaze, and his posture relaxed a little.

"Yes, I'm fine," he confessed honestly. Widening his eyes, he wondered, "Why?"

Barnes spiked an eyebrow, flapping a hand in the air. "You just seem...hyper-aware. And trust me, I know something about that state of mind."

"Or lack thereof," Steve riposted, earning an eye roll for his efforts. Just as he'd expected would be the case.

"Either way, you look like you're waiting for something, is my point," Bucky finished, his light eyes wandering around the space as if he could try and spot what his friend was waiting for.

Steve's brow furrowed for a moment as he considered it, and then started to laugh a little when he realized why.

"Makes sense. I've spent the last couple of weeks working on my son's schedule," he explained, raking a hand through his hair and forcing himself to sit less at attention. "Guess I was waiting to hear him cry."

Bucky smirked, tipping his head back towards the office door. "Well, if it would make you feel better, I could go knee-drop Lang. He'd probably scream just as much."

The blond man fixed a faux-stern look upon his friend, but the effect was rather ruined by the smile he was struggling to suppress.

"You probably shouldn't be talking about harming your own teammate, Captain," he said sternly, a light emphasis on the title Bucky now bore. "Not to me, at least."

At once the brunet's expression smoothed over, and he offered, "Apologies, Commander. I'll just keep it to myself next time."

Shaking his head, he couldn't quite hide the humor lining his irises, and so settled for eating the last of the lunch brought up to him. Tossing the container and plastic fork into the trash, he let out a long sigh, the files from before now spread over the desk top.

"Anyway, since you're here: would you care to explain what happened in Hungary?" he demanded in a light tone, his thumb tapping against the short paragraph of text provided by his friend. Each member of the team was required to do after-mission report, in oral and written form, to provide different perspectives and to uncover new leads, if they were discovered at all. However, given Bucky's lack of enthusiasm for both forms, it was something of a trial when elaboration was needed. Particularly when there was two weeks' worth to go through. "In, you know, less vague terms. Handing in a report that is almost literally, 'we went in, fought, and got out' is not enough to go by, frankly."

Barnes folded his arms, unfazed by Steve's summation of his words. "Even if that is what happened?"

"Again, it's vague. Give me something to go on, in case it needs a follow-up and planning for that follow-up." Off his friend's groan, Rogers rolled his eyes. "Come on, this ain't exactly new stuff, pal."

Snorting, Bucky retorted, "Need me to salute you afterward, too?"

Steve sat back in his chair, taking a moment to merely smirk at his friend, and marvel at his progress. Nearly two and a half years of freedom, many hours of therapy, and humbling excursions into the modern world had done wonders for the scarred man before him. He wasn't fully healed, in all likelihood he never would be, but it was certainly something like a victory when he gave as good as he got without much issue or hindrance. He would go far as the new Captain America, and he looked forward to the advancement of his progress in that regard.

"Were this a very different setting…" he muttered aloud and raised an eyebrow, instead of continuing down the mushy path. Tipping a palm out to him, he tried again. "Details, please, Buck."

Acceding to his request, Barnes went into further detail on the most recent mission. Having been sent after stragglers of HYDRA, it was fairly cut and dry, with the team executing takedowns and pulling in the ringleaders for arrest and information. At present, Natasha was conferring with Nick Fury, cross-referencing what they had been told with similar SHIELD agent reports that had been filed. Digesting it all, with the nagging sense that he was still missing out on something playing at the back of his mind, he and Bucky spent the remainder of the meeting sifting through the other messages and reports Hill had forwarded to him. Some would be dealt with by him over the next several days, while the others were to be delegated to the team and their abilities. Within hours of Bucky finishing his stack and bidding him good-bye, the tell-tale chime on his phone announcing the time as five o'clock pulled him away from the files before him, and he let out a long sigh. Though it had been a mostly productive day, he knew there was far more still to catch up on. It could wait until tomorrow, though, and so he gathered up his things, out the door and in the base's garage in mere minutes. It was a relief to get into the truck, fire it up and go home, to go where he wanted to be from nearly the moment he'd driven off the property.

Returning in good time to the slate-blue house, he scooped up his shield and keys, letting himself into the house easily enough. Quiet greeted his ears, giving credence to his summation that Grant was still sleeping. Quietly, he called out his wife's name, spying the light peeking from the crack between the office door and the jamb. Peering through it, he caught the harried, blank stare she gave the computer screen before her, her profile as expressive as ever. However, it melted away when she realized he was there, getting up and opening the portal fully to greet him. Troubled by her blatant cover-up, he could not get a word in edgewise as she gave a brief description of her day, ticking off the feedings and the changings that had happened in between the chores, and her asking after the team since he'd finally seen them in person. Before he knew it, they were eating dinner, small bits of conversation interspersed with food and him kicking himself for playing right into her method of distraction. Whatever she was holding it, she was deeming it better to do so on her own, and while he knew that she would not keep it to herself for long, it ate at him to see it weighing down on her in the meantime.

However, as the last bites of his dinner was being devoured (she was sneaking in bits and pieces as she got up on and off to take care of other chores she had not gotten done that day), he did not have the chance to inquire after what it was, as Grant's hungry wails came through the monitor. Recognizing them for what they were, he shifted on his chair and prepared to rise.

"I can go—" he started to say, a hand planting firmly on his shoulder prompting him to stay in place.

"I got it," she told him, her tone brooking no refusal. Tapping her fingers against his shirt, she let go as soon as he nodded, agreeing to remain in his seat. Over her shoulder, she called, "Be back in a few."

And indeed she was, Grant bundled in her arms and the feeding cover slung around her neck. Knowing full well there was at least one bottle in the refrigerator, he opened his mouth prepared to offer again, especially when he caught the gleam in her eye. It was matched by the swift grimace on her lips as she tugged the cover to sit right, by the way her gaze ricocheted around the kitchen, settling on and off on certain things. Leaning forward in his seat, he pushed his empty plate to the side, cocking his head to the left.

"Sweetheart..." he began, his voice dying when she met his eye, the gleam having hardened slightly.

"Yeah?" Her tone was even, but he could sense that he was pushing against a wall, one that she did not wish to have breached. Forcibly softening the frown that had come to his lips, he let his all-too-obvious worry leak through, relaxing his posture and leaning his elbows on the table.

"Are you alright?" he asked, hoping she would take the proverbial hand he was reaching out to her.

"...I'm fine," she said, a small and almost apologetic smile on her lips. It did not reach her eyes, but when he inwardly chose to continue, to lobby for a real answer, he caught the bare shake of her head. Not then, she told him silently. It was not enough to talk about, in her estimation, and so she would not. Instead, she fixed her expression into something passably pleasant and dipped her chin at him. "Tell me about work while I feed him. Well, what you can tell me, at least."

Blinking once, twice, he leaned back into his seat, complying with her unspoken wishes and taking his proffered hand away. If she did not wish to speak about it, wished to continue hauling whatever weight was on her shoulders on her own, he would let her do so.

For now, he mused to himself as he started to describe his day, resolving silently that it would not remain so indefinitely. He did, however, scoop up Grant when he was finished with his feeding, asserting his own silent rebuttal as she sat back in her chair, blowing out a sharp breath.

 **xXxXxXx**

A few days later, and the churning sense of self-doubt in Holly had not abated. Being a mother, a task she had no ability to imagine before giving birth, was more than what she could surmise. She'd never expected it to be easy, of course, but she had thought she would have better grace in taking care of her son once Steve went back to work. At minimum, she missed the extra set of hands she'd relied on those first two weeks; at maximum, even with the disrupted sleep and readjustments needed, she'd missed his company and commiseration. It was the first true break from work he'd had since last Christmas (she refused to count his weeks in the hospital after the battle outside the United Nations hall, for obvious reasons), and even that had been interrupted by a mission. While she did not begrudge him his job, she couldn't help but wish he was still there. As she struggled to get Grant down for his afternoon nap, she found herself cursing the lack of lengthy paid paternity leave in the United States.

When the baby finally settled down, she found herself cursing the entire day thus far. It had been taxing almost since the moment she'd woken up. Grant was fussing from the moment Steve started to get ready to leave, and would not calm even after he bid them both farewell. Checking him for signs of fever or other illnesses, she could not find anything physically wrong with the little guy. He was just appeared to be discontent, until a massive expulsion proved otherwise. Cleaning him up (and the wall that had caught some of the excess) took far longer than she had thought it would, with the morning gone and his hungry cries taking place of the others that had come before. Soreness had caught up with her, and she spent the feeding wincing and grimacing as his gums clamped like vices. Pumping didn't feel much better, but she had thought she would rather endure it and have him give her a rest at dinnertime than go through the ordeal again. Added to that was the lack of response to her publisher's emails about the sales of her book, and the chores of the house that she was lagging behind on (not that they were solely her responsibility, of course, but it did happen on occasion, no matter how hard she and her husband tried to stay on top of them). After glowering at the laundry basket for a full minute, she chose to finish it later. It was her turn to get cleaned up, and she wasn't going to let another second go by before she did.

Stripping down and stepping under the hot cascade, she endured the pounding pressure applied by the shower-head. Absorbed as she was by the lash relaxing her muscles, she did not notice the tears running down her face at first, but once she realized how her breathing had become shorter, and her head ached from the pressure of trying to keep it all locked down, she couldn't ignore it. Soon enough, her arms were braced along the tile wall, her face buried against the wet skin and gasping sobs dripping from her mouth. The run of her mind was impossible to keep up with, and the thoughts she could center on were telling her how stupid she was being, to get over it all and move on. She couldn't waste her time tearing up; she had things to do, her son to care for...

A knock came at the door, the thuds breaking through the haze of her tears and the splash of the water.

"Holly, you okay in there?" Steve's voice was muffled by the door, but the note of concern in it would have been impossible to miss. It had been a training day for him and the team, which meant he was able to come home earlier than was normal. A flush of embarrassment flooding through her then, and despite being under the spray of water, she automatically wiped at her face, trying to hide the sorrow that forced its way out.

"Uh, yeah. I'm, I'm fine," she blurted, her tone cracking as she spoke. She hoped and prayed the running water would be enough of a buffer to disguise the brief sorrow she had indulged in, that he would simply take her word for it. A pregnant pause followed, and she felt that hope die with each passing second.

"You sure?" he inquired eventually, deep skepticism outlining his words. Holly bit the inside of her cheek for a moment, forcing herself to soldier on.

"Yeah. I'll be out in a minute."

"Okay." Soft thuds of retreating footsteps came from the other side, and she let out the breath she'd been holding. She went about the remainder of her routine as quickly as she could, mentally preparing herself to push down the negativity and get back to work. Scrubbing her face and body, she merely plopped conditioner in her hair and rinsed it out thoroughly. Toweling off, she threw on the assorted clothes she had taken in with her, adjusting the shirt and sweatpants as she walked out of the steamy room. Stopping short on the threshold, she swallowed hard. Contrary to her assumption, Steve was still in their room, sitting on the end of the mattress and his eyes glued to the door. Well, glued to her as she exited.

"Is something wrong?" Holly asked on her way to the closet, chucking the towel into the overflowing basket after a last swipe of her hair. The worry in her form started to grip her again, but when she noticed Steve's relaxed posture, it lessened somewhat. "Is Grant all right? Did I forget something before—"

"He's fine; he's still sleeping," he reassured her, having checked in on the little guy before seeking her out. He watched the briefest flit of comfort register in her eyes before it melted away, and something inside him twisted. Holding out a palm, he gestured to her. "Doll, come here."

The comfort he was offering was so blatant that she could not ignore, even if she'd wanted to. Complying, she went to him, allowing him to pull her down and sit on his lap. One arm went around his shoulder, while the other reached up, toyed with the collar of his shirt as she felt her body loosen in his embrace.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have taken so long, but I just needed the shower so badly, and..." she hastened to explain, ready to tell him exactly what had happened, but he cut her off once again.

"It's okay. Really, everything's fine," Steve reported, fingers fidgeting at the folds of her pants and shirt. His bright eyes skittered away for a fraction of a second before meeting hers again. "Out here, at least."

Her shoulders tightened, and—despite the red soreness of them—her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that?"

"I heard you, Holl," he stated softly, the stoicism in his features melting into the concern that simmered below the surface. "I heard you in the shower."

Heat came into her cheeks, but she simply inclined her eyebrows.

"So? You hear a lot of things; running water isn't exactly an amazing sound," she tried to joke, but it fell flat. His stiff expression chipped away at the facade she had built, and she swallowed.

"I heard you crying," he explained, blue eyes wide and his lips turned down in a frown. A sympathetic frown, but a frown nonetheless. She stiffened in his arms, knowing what was coming next, and sure enough, he asked, "What's going on?"

"It doesn't matter," she said, brushing off the overwhelming feelings as they threatened to swamp her again. Pushing away from him, she stood up and crossed to the bedroom door. He, however, wasn't going to simply take her word for it.

"When something does this to you, it does matter," he countered, standing as well and folding his arms. He wasn't going to back down from it, wasn't about to let her go without at least attempting to get the truth out of her. Not like he had a few days ago.

She bit down harshly on her tongue, nearly drawing blood in her effort to stop herself from continuing. The urge to get really angry, to fight it out with Steve in place of the uncertainty that sat in her stomach for the last few days, was strong. Taking a few steps from the door, her hands curled around the knob, before the urge all but disappeared, leaving a sense of exhaustion and emptiness. Picking a fight with Steve was not something she truly wanted. Resting her forehead against the wooden panels, she took in a few steadying breaths before turning back to face him. The concern in his gaze had tripled, and he looked lost. Lost, and trying so hard to figure out what he could do to help her with the little information provided. Sighing, she stepped back from the door, tugging on the end of her drying ponytail before spilling the truth.

"I'm just very tired, is all," Holly began, the lame explanation falling away as her natural honesty compelled her further. "And I'm...I just, I don't know if I'm doing anything right, or if I'm screwing our son up."

Steve blinked, his jaw dropping a little as the words registered, and Holly dropped her gaze to her feet. It wasn't a thought she had often, granted, but between the screaming and the clean-up, the tears and the nearly-botched feedings, she had wondered if what she was doing was enough. It just caught her by surprise, like almost everything else that day.

"I'm just...nervous, and on my own for a lot of the time, and, well..."

She trailed off, disgusted with how needy and pathetic she sounded. And she had been doing fairly decently, keeping her worries to herself. Holly had been independent for a good portion of her adult life, and had thought she should be doing a better job caring for Grant even while Steve was gone. More tears welled up in her eyes then, and she harshly shut them, trying not to give into them. Crying was the worst part of it; there was no hiding it, not the tracks or the reddening eyes, or the hangdog look that always followed. She was being such a baby, she chided herself inwardly, even more so than her own son. She should have been able to handle it better, shouldn't be losing it so quickly.

Strong arms wrapped around her, guiding her to sit on the edge of the bed, and she complied, leaning heavily against Steve as the last upsurge pushed out of her.

"Doll, he's only a little over two weeks old. I swear, you couldn't have done anything wrong," he told her, the unwavering solidity of his tone causing her to look up at him. Fingers came up, calloused pads dashing away the fat teardrops as they fell. She said nothing to that, merely squeezing her eyes shut tighter as she chastised herself inwardly yet again. An almost imperceptible sigh coursed out of him, and he held her closer. "You're, you're amazing. Really, you've been putting me to shame."

She snorted wryly. "Yeah, okay."

"You have," he reiterated, the confidence he had in her abilities impressed upon his mind. Perhaps she wasn't saving the world (a measure which he believed she needed to stop using against herself, even in her own head), but she was keeping up with it, keeping up with their boy as the days went on. She took care of the baby, took care of him in her own way, oversaw the house and still kept contact to her job and her publisher—her evenings were spent answering emails, locations of certain items in the archives being asked of her and reviews of her novel were examined. Rubbing up and down her back, he told her, "You're really taking charge here. Even if you're scared, you're still doing it all. I think that says far more than about you than being nervous in the first place."

Another snort followed, but it was less derisive than the one that had preceded it. For long moment, they sat in the blessed silence, the click of the air conditioning pumping through the vents and the low hum of the baby monitor the only sounds breaking it. Eventually, Holly leaned back, enough so that she could look at her husband. Her eyes were red, her face was mottled, and the tear tracks were clear, but she had finally stopped crying. Sniffing hard, she accepted Steve's ministrations as he wiped the tears from her face, the handkerchief that resided in his back pocket produced and blotting away the wetness swiftly.

"You're too good to me. Always have been," she said, the barest hint of a curve tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Well, there's a reason for it, sweetheart," he remarked, drying the last of the tear tracks. Balling up the handkerchief, he tossed it in the general direction of the dresser, keeping his attention on her. Taking her hand, he threaded their fingers together and squeezed tenderly. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm with you on it, too."

"In it together," she half-mumbled, and he nodded.

"Exactly. You're not alone on this. Even when I'm not here. And when I am, you can definitely count on me," Steve promised. The tentative smile he'd given her grew dim, and he scratched the back of his neck. "I'll, I'll be more helpful when I'm home from now on."

Holly's dark gaze latched onto him then, and she tilted her head in incredulity.

"Steve, short of elbowing me out of the way to take care of the baby when you're here, how much more helpful can you get?" she wondered. Despite being a commander, a leader of the world's best response teams, a task force that was rivaled by no others, he still came home and did his part to feed and change Grant. He was an immense source of help when it came to caring for their boy; it was no less than what a father should do, in his own estimation.

His eyes darted up then, and he shrugged.

"I...it's my job, to take care of you. And him. Well, not my job, but...I want to take care of you both," he affirmed simply, the little pride in him leaking away within seconds. "I clearly haven't."

A guilty twist wrenched in her gut; she'd been the one to push away his offers of help over the last few days, having fallen into the mindset that she could do it, that she did not want to burden him with stress on top of his high-intensity job. He'd pushed back, subtly placing himself around the house so that he could be of use, that he could take care of their boy despite all that.

She knew better, knew that he would not see his family or home as burdens, and she felt a little ashamed of her behavior. At once, she shook her head, tipping his chin up with a finger so they could look at one another properly.

"Please, don't start that again. You have helped, more than you know, hon. Just...keep doing what you have been."

Slowly, carefully, he nodded, cupping the back of her head and drawing her in for a sweet, chaste kiss.

"Let's go get some dinner, okay?"

Holly bit her lips, her brow furrowing as she glanced over her shoulder into the closet. The mountain of laundry had yet to be tamed, and there were the emails to publisher that she hadn't answered yet as well. Food could wait for a little while longer.

"I don't know, I should probably do—"

Shaking his head, Steve braced his hands on either side of her hips, propelling her forward and towards the door.

"Dinner first," he commanded lightly, answering her muted glare with a raised eyebrow. "You can't do anything if you keel over out of the blue."

Holly exhaled slowly out her nose as he continued to guide her down the stairs, the monitor clipped now to his belt as they went.

"Fair enough," she muttered, conceding the point just as her stomach growled and ended all possible arguments she could have made. Although she did have a parting comment to inflict. "Bossy."

Steve let it pass, though a corner of his mouth quirked as they headed into the kitchen. Pulling together a few things from their cupboards and fridge (grocery shopping was on the list of things still to do), he managed to get her to sit down and eat, a loaded turkey sandwich and chips slowly devoured. Determined to take the load off her shoulders for the night, he wolfed down his own plate, almost physically stopping her from rising when he did. Gently, he persuaded her to stay put, eat at her leisure instead of picking and then rushing off after a few moments. Her rebuttals were cut off by the crows coming through the monitor, and his stating plainly that he would take care of Grant.

Holly ate mechanically, one bite disappearing after another, the ache in her head eased as well as the one in her stomach. Every last bit of her chips and sandwich were ingested, swallowed down as her thoughts began to merely hum and not whir on. Rising from her seat, she rinsed the plate and cup she'd had before placing them in the dishwasher, wandering into the living room. Steve had Grant in his lap, their boy blinking up at him as he described his day. Catching her eye, he cocked his head, silently imploring her to sit beside him. Doing so, she all but curled up against him as he continued his one-sided conversation with the infant, chuckling a little when he speculated to the amount of times Grant tried to eat his own hands or how long he stared at the mobile at the end of his crib. The soothing sound of his voice hushed the storm within, and soon enough, Holly found herself dozing against his shoulder. The heat of his body faded when he pulled away, and she fell back against the cushions, thinking dully that Grant needed something else. After a few minutes, she was jolted out of her light snoozing, grabbing hard to steady herself as she was lifted in the air. The low rumble of a chuckle reverberated in Steve's chest, and she half-glowered at him as he carried her to their bedroom. The baby had been put in his crib for the moment, and it was time for her to go to bed as well. Objections, ones that insisted that she could walk on her own and that she could stay up a little longer, help him out, tumbled from her lips, but they fell on deaf ears. Instead, her husband followed through with his promise, carrying her right up to the turned-back sheets on their bed and depositing her under them.

"Sleep, doll. I got him tonight," he whispered, and she allowed herself to be laid down. Covers were pulled over her, and her eyelids sank down as he murmured, "Shh, sleep."

And though she knew that things weren't totally fixed or set to rights, they were on the way there; she and Steve were in it together, even if she was lost in dreams and he took on the load for the night.

 **xXxXxXx**

By the time Saturday came, life in the household reached, if not an equilibrium, then a certain type of steadiness. After Holly's moment of doubt and subsequent fall-out, the couple had to decide how to proceed for the future. With Grant adhering more and more to a firm schedule, they could plan around it, with duties and chores better divided to keep things running smoothly. During the week, while Steve was at the base, Holly would have full responsibility for him. However, once Daddy was home, he would take control. In truth, Steve rather liked the idea; he was glad to get in his time with his son where he could, and he wanted his wife to not assume the world's weight on her shoulders any longer than she had to. What had been disrupted since after Holly's parents had left was falling back into place, minus the obvious alterations and changes, and things were starting to feel right.

While they had agreed that weekends would be joint endeavors, Steve obeyed Holly's directive to spend the morning out of the house, needing to take care of a few things on her own. Minor protestation was met with a stiff finger pointing him out the door, and false grumbles fell from his lips as he was banished. Grant stayed indoors with his mother, as it was better overall that he did so. Thus shunted out of the house, the blond man spent his time examining his long-neglected motorcycle. It had been stored in the garage for months, a test drive or two taken back in the spring its only relief from imprisonment. Getting to work, he toyed with a few odds and ends, checked the tires and the engine (both Howard and Tony's voices echoing proper procedures in his head as he worked) before giving it life once more. Taking it out on the back roads near their property, he lost himself in the task, coming in around noon when his stomach rumbled and he was satisfied with the bike's condition. Silently, he mused that he would need to get in a few more bouts with it before winter came, deciding that he could start by driving into work with it as he keyed in the code for the back door.

Hearing the click and shift of the door, Holly came into the kitchen when he did, pulling out the leftovers from dinner the night before and telling him to go crazy since she'd already helped herself. Doing so, he let his gaze wander over her when she retreated back to the living room. She looked better than she had a few days ago; circles remained under her eyes, but they weren't nearly as dark as they had been in the past. She'd taken the time to get herself dressed, a proper blouse on as well as decent shorts. He lost his focus when he got to her legs, but he snapped back to attention when she'd gone and his stomach growled angrily at him.

Eating fast, he eventually found his way to her, smiling when she looked up from the notebook she was scribbling in. Holly's pen scratched away at the opened page, a smirk dancing over her lips as she wrote. Grant was nearby, little arms waving and jerking as he sat in his bouncy seat. The onesie he was wearing had the round shield design on the chest, and he snorted upon seeing it (at least Holly's friend Sarah felt comfortable enough to poke fun at him, even if she had done it through gifting their baby with that romper). Her dark gaze glanced up from the paper to him as he took the spot beside her, and she sighed. Another story idea had struck, he'd surmised, though her pen had stilled in her hand as she stared at him. Taking a few steps closer to the sofa, her head shook sharply, and she hooked a thumb towards the stairs.

"Not on my couch, grease monkey," she'd snapped playfully, her gaze darting from the light splotches on his face to the streak on his shirt. He had to, at least change into clean clothes, she demanded. Complying, he rolled his eyes at the stern wag of her finger, muttering something about her not being his mother. When she stuck out her tongue at him and still shooed him off, he chuckled, changing into clean jeans and a t-shirt before joining her in the living room. Leaning forward, she tapped a finger along the curve of his jaw, stating how he'd missed a spot. Promising to get cleaned up later, he inquired after both her and the baby, and what she thought about getting take-out from the diner in town. Pleased by the prospect, he gladly accepted her muted enthusiasm, sharp eyes examining her as she set the notebook aside.

"So what's the verdict?" he asked after a few moments of silence, the tremor of hesitance tripping at the back of his voice. The real reason why he'd spent the better half of the day in the garage, idly toying with his motorcycle and test-driving it, was to give her the appropriate privacy to call her therapist. Though she did not video-chat with the doctor regularly, the rollercoaster of emotions she'd ridden a few days prior had shaken her. She'd wanted some perspective on it all, and so she'd asked for the space. Given the way she'd joked with him upon coming inside, and the calm expression she was sporting, she'd made some peace with what was told to her. She lifted a shoulder, tugging at a loose thread on her shorts.

"Well, the therapist doesn't think it's true post-partum depression, even if it is a little past the typical two-week mark for baby blues. My own personal tendencies to worry seem to have gotten the better of me." From the day it had all boiled over, she had more or less suspected that would be the case, but she couldn't help but wonder if she might have something worse going on. It was a part of birth and early motherhood that few spoke about in public. Her guts twisted at the idea that perhaps things had progressed further than either of them had wanted, that it could still get worse. However, with the information she provided, she trusted the doctor's judgment (the woman had helped guide her through her feelings of inadequacy and guilt after the Battle of Sokovia, after her scare while Steve was in the hospital). Scrubbing a hand over the scar on her forehead, she continued, "Honestly, having the good cry helped a lot. And eating a full meal, and you letting me sleep in. And the doctor could tell. If things get worse, then I'll have to call in again and get some real help, but for the moment, that's it."

A frisson of relief coursed through him at that, though he kept his expression neutral. "You sure?"

Holly nodded again, entirely serious. "Yeah. I was very overwhelmed, and it all came to a head. But like I said, the doctor figured that was the case."

There was a catch in her voice, a lilt in her gaze as she said so, and Steve cocked an eyebrow at it.

"How so?"

Her focus dropped down to the baby, warmth invading her face as she watched Grant stretch his legs.

"Well, when you're kissing and snuggling with your baby right as the video chat with the therapist connects, and happily doing so, that's a hint."

It was as if Grant had known how difficult it had been those few days ago, and was making up for it. His crying had not suddenly stopped (it was his only means of communication, at his age), but it wasn't as loud or plaintive as it had been then. His nursing went off without a hitch, latching and getting his fill easily enough. And every time he dropped off, he only did so in his mother's arms, nestling into her embrace with little sighs and grunts. It was pretty sweet, to be honest, and a harder heart than Holly's would have been swayed by it.

A small grin graced his lips, though it dimmed after a second or two. "Still called, though."

"Better to do so than not in this life, dear," she retorted, poking his thigh and giving him a smirk.

"I'll give you that, even if we gotta shill out for it," he teased, reaching out and tucking back the loose waves of her hair behind her ear. Whatever it took to help his wife, he would do, be it parting with a good chunk of change for a therapist or anything else. Sighing, he peered at her again, not able to stop himself from commenting, "I can't imagine what it would be like, if..."

"It's a lot worse to deal with," she said, her gaze fixing on a point on the far wall. From what the doctor had told her, and from her own personal investigation into the matter, post-partum depression was more than merely getting frustrated, and required more than a nap and a sandwich to get through. And while her personal anxiety issues could not be resolved fully that way, either, she knew in her heart it wasn't at that steep level. "Any woman who makes it through PPD deserves so much respect."

Steve dipped his chin. "Agreed."

Holly nodded once more, her dark eyes riveting on him for a long moment. After a minute or two, she crooked her finger at him, beckoning him.

"Come here," she said, waiting as he shuffled closer to her. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and he returned the embrace, humming low in his throat as she pressed her lips to the spot just below his ear (avoiding the smudges of grease as best she could). Sincerely, since a good part of her rebound was due to his renewed aid and follow-through on supporting her, she whispered, "Thank you."

Grinning down at her, Steve graced her with a peck on the lips before rising from the couch. Waggling his fingers at their boy, he announced his intention to get the rest of the grease off his face, departing straightaway. Holly sat back, eyes closing as she tipped her head against the cushions. When the sound of distant running water greeted her ears, she opened them again, scooting forward and dropping onto her knees. Shuffling over to the bouncing seat, she stared down at Grant, the little guy's eyes drifting blearily over her as he squirmed slightly. Running a finger over the tiny shield on the chest of his onesie, she felt her smile grow again, the nerves quelled by something far stronger.

"Even though this sometimes scares the hell outta me, I still love you, Baby Boy," she confessed to him, leaning over her son and kissing his cheek before gathering him up again. As she held him close, she felt some of her peace return, little by little. "Definitely not going anywhere."

* * *

 **A/N:**...Because not every mother experiences total sunshine and rainbows after giving birth. Hopefully this did not offend anybody, as it was not meant to. Personally, I don't think Holly has PPD; it's more of her own anxieties and self-doubt coming out once she's on her own, and her needing the reminder that she is not alone in this parenting endeavor to even out. Frankly, I think I've portrayed her as too pleased and comfortable from the get-go with the baby, and so she most likely does not fit the full criteria. New mothers can and do get overwhelmed without it being something more. Although I know that sometimes it is, and that it deserves as much attention and respect in dealing with.

To those mothers who have suffered through and succeeded to find a way to continue on with post-partum depression, I salute you. Though I may have no true knowledge of that struggle, I do appreciate those of you who can and do make it through each day, to be parents to your children and important people in the lives of those around you. Continue kicking butt, ladies.

We've got one more chapter in August coming up, and then we'll be proceeding on from there. There will be more chapters concerning the members of the team/the outer world very soon (hope you all appreciated the Bucky/mentions of the rest of the organization bit I threw in here) but generally, the first month of parenthood is really about the new family unit that has been formed. A lot of parents' worlds contract to that little one built in the home. Again, I don't speak from personal experience, but secondhand stories; my sister is a mother, and it really was like her world was her son, her husband, and her dog for the first month of the baby's life. Now that baby is four years old, and it's definitely not like that anymore...particularly as he will be getting a little brother in the next couple of months. ;) I'll have another nephew to spoil and turn into a Cap fan, so excited!

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references in the text (Marvel comics, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	3. Chapter 3

Setting down her notebook and pen, Holly leaned back against the couch, scrubbing her palms over her face.

"This is going to be the longest weekend ever," she grunted, threading her fingers back into her hair. From his spot on the living room floor, Steve snorted.

"Well, don't get too excited about it, honey," he responded sardonically, his gaze focusing on the spread blanket before him. In the middle was Grant, experiencing his first supervised 'tummy time' with wide eyes. At a month old, it was finally safe enough for him to start, and so far, it appeared that he was in a world of wonderment as he did so. Particularly when Steve's fingers danced in and out of his periphery, little breaths shooting out of him at the strange and entrancing sight. It was almost therapeutic for the father, as the day had been spent in meetings with Hill and Fury, a training bout with Wanda thrown in that had left him banged off of several walls and with a headache. In comparison, spending his time on the floor with his son was easier by far.

Holly, watching him tiptoe his fingers in front of Grant's face for a few moments, eventually slid off the couch to sit next to him. The pressure of the upcoming weekend loomed at the back of her mind, and inevitably, she was drawn into speaking of it after another minute or two.

"You know, I've done this once, but it doesn't get any easier," she exclaimed, gently turning their boy over onto his back. That Saturday, her best friend Sarah was getting married, and as the matron of honor, she was expected to run interference for the bride, act as a partial hostess, and generally keep Sarah sane on the day of. And while she'd had the experience of doing the same for her own sister years ago, it had been done then in a state of blissful ignorance. Now that she knew better, she was already feeling the proverbial load settling upon her shoulders. Add in the fact that she had given birth recently and still was tidying up her dinner speech, and the heaviness increased.

As she took a breather and leaned against him, Steve tutted under his breath in sympathy.

"On the bright side, most of your duties are already done," he offered, thinking of how she'd managed to plan out the bridal shower and bachelorette parties from their house a couple months previously. The look she gave him made his half-grin wither slightly.

"Oh, you think that," she riposted brightly, shaking her head before bumping his shoulder with her own. Sweet man, had he not learned anything from _their_ wedding? Although, that had been such a fast endeavor, perhaps his memory was choosing to be selective. Either way, she nestled into his side, gnawing on her lip as she considered an idea. Coming to a conclusion, she dipped her chin and reached backward. Snatching up her notebook from the cushion, she opened it to the correct page and cleared her throat. "Tell me what you think of this."

Nodding, he listened silently as Holly entreated him to the latest version of her toast to the bride and groom. The introduction went well enough, practically boiler plate as it was, but as she spoke of becoming friends with Sarah, a stroke of luck brought on by an accident of weather and being able to recognize the potential for friendship in the most random situation, his ears pricked up. The curve of his mouth turned up as she recalled the first time Sarah had crossed paths with her soon-to-be husband, and how she had switched to a few Apple products on the off-chance of seeing him again. How she knew the guy was something special when he actually came to her dance studio and stayed on to learn a few steps himself. Though he hadn't learned much, he'd learned enough about the instructor to ask her out. Having never been privy to the full story of their beginnings, Steve found it interesting to see where the Apple genius that had tried to help him and Nat out during the SHIELD fiasco had ended up, at least in that regard.

Wrapping it up with her knowledge of their bright future together, and raising a glass to the bride and groom, Holly waited as Steve inclined his head, a measure of pride and approval in his face.

"Sounds like you're gonna knock Sarah and Aaron's socks off."

The little breath she'd been holding flowed out then, and she put the notebook down again.

"Really? It's nice to get the opinion of someone who can, you know, understand what I'm saying," she confessed, flapping a hand in the air. A guilty glance shot downward, and she murmured, "Not that Granty here is a bad sounding board, but, well..."

Steve chuckled at that, shaking his head before smoothing down the sleeve of the baby's romper. Reassuring her of its worth, his smile broadened as she pushed the papers, and her concerns, away for the evening. No longer occupied thusly, Holly let her son take her pinky, the tiny squeezes of his little fingers making her grin. Pecking the infant's hand, she and Steve took turns 'playing' with him (which, at his age, was considered showing him his own hands and feet, and very light tickles to his belly to encourage a few gurgles) before his yawning alerted them to his exhaustion. Noting that it was about his bedtime, the parents took their child upstairs, a little fussing happening as they changed him into his pajamas, but eventually he settled down enough to be swaddled and rocked into slumber. Once he was fully out, the couple repaired to their bedroom. Though his headache had, largely, been eradicated, Steve lost himself in a new sketchbook, the motions of drawing easing him further. Holly, in turn, started a new novel, laying on her stomach with her book propped into her pillow. Her ankles crossed and uncrossed in the air, the stir of pages the only sound breaking the quiet (save for the whir of the ever-present monitor).

"Are you sure about coming this weekend, too?" she piped up suddenly, jarring him out of his intense concentration. Hearing the tremor of doubt in her voice, he pivoted to look at her, her dark eyes skittering to him and back to the page she was pretending to peruse. Shaking her head, her loosened hair fell around her shoulders, acting as a shield against his potential answer. "I mean, you are commander now. I'll understand if you have to stay behind."

Naturally, as her husband, Steve had merited an invitation as well, but both the bride and groom were well aware of his status, and had stated plainly that if he could not come, it would be all right. Holly had commiserated with their statements as well, even as he had insisted he would do so. That didn't necessarily mean she would be totally pleased, per se, if it did happen, but she would not hold it against him. With him being at a higher level in his work, that meant more responsibilities. She could manage without him there, if needed. It certainly wouldn't be ideal, but she could make it work. For his part, his eyebrows inclined higher, and he maintained his gaze even as he set his sketchbook and pencil on the nightstand.

"That's right, I'm commander now. I can trust the team to make decisions on their own, if anything does come up," he said plainly, cupping a hand in the air. "The whole point of the change was so that I can be with my family now, when you both need me."

Blue eyes raked over her then, and darkened a bit as he smiled again.

"Besides, how could I pass up a chance to see you all dolled up, sweetheart?"

The tenor of his question warmed her from the inside out, and she raised herself up. On all fours she crawled over towards him, a smirk on her lips as her book was pushed to one side.

"And I get to see you in a suit. A regular one, without any insignia or Kevlar as part of the design," she clarified, straddling his lap as he snickered. "Same with the little man; he's gonna look just like Daddy. My two handsome fellas."

His grin turned lopsided, even as his eyes became hooded.

"So you say," he responded, palms sliding up and down her back as she leaned closer to him.

"So I know," she whispered, lips brushing against his as she spoke. He shifted forward then, lips encompassing hers and hands sliding up to cup her face. One kiss became two, and two morphed into so much more as her body pressed against his, relishing the heat and cut of his form against her curves. The world turned as he rolled her underneath him, tingling trails left where skin traipsed across skin, gasps caught in between low moans as their mouths met over and over again.

However, it all came to a hard stop when his weight was fully applied, the press to certain areas causing a twinge to shoot through her and her breath to catch in a way that did not indicate pleasure. Making the distinction immediately, Steve rocked back, propping himself on hands and knees over her, deep worry bleeding through the desire on his face.

"Sorry, did I hurt you?" he breathed, eyes scanning over her body to pinpoint the pain. A streak of disgust, self-disgust, flashed over his irises as he swallowed and let his head droop. "I, I didn't mean—"

A finger tipping his chin up again cut him off, reassurance and sincerity in her eyes as he met her gaze again. It wasn't his fault; in fact, there wasn't any true fault to find in the situation. In her mind, it just was.

"I'm not 100% just yet. Doctor Watson did say at least six weeks, until after the postpartum exam," she reported honestly, reminding him of the stipulations provided by her doctor. Particularly with the stitches she had received; she absolutely needed to heal those before attempting anything amorous with her husband. Paired with the other exercises she needed to do to strengthen herself, it would still be some time before they could be intimate in that way. As difficult as it was to wait, she knew it had to be done. Threading her fingers through his hair, she wondered, "Think you can wait a bit longer, soldier?"

For a long moment, he would not look at her, instead contemplating a point on the headboard. However, soon enough he caught her eye once more, inhaling deeply. Slowly, softly, he came down again, bearing the brunt of his weight on his forearms, his hips resting carefully against hers. When they were snug against each other, and she did not give any indication that she was hurt, he relaxed, resting his forehead against hers.

"For you, I can," he promised, pecking her again, passing several minutes in that fashion before the lateness of the hour compelled them to part and ready for sleep.

 **xXxXxXx**

As they had agreed, Steve had taken a half day on Friday so that they could make the trip down to Philadelphia for the wedding. The soon-to-be married couple had chosen the groom's hometown for the venue, and it was no real hardship for them to go there. Not in theory, anyway. Packing for themselves, with formal wear on top of all the things they thought their infant son would need, appeared to be half the battle. Partway through the trip, Grant had started crying fiercely, with very little able to soothe him. After stopping at a rest area for twenty minutes, Holly was able to give him a bottle and rocked him to sleep, but barely lasted until they hit the state line. It took some doing, and reshuffling of their things, but eventually she was sitting in the back, humming to their boy in an effort to keep him calm as Steve drove, worried looks darted to the rear-view mirror on and off to meet with hers. Evidently, their son hated being in the car; they could only pray that traveling in the future would get marginally better as he got older.

The trip, which had been planned to be four and a half hours, was nearly six, including their time spent checking into the hotel where the wedding party was staying, and Holly calling Sarah's mother Jane twice for directions to the church. The rehearsal was scheduled for 6:30, and she was cutting it terribly close. It very much was a case of shunting everything from Steve's truck into the hotel room (with him sheltered by a ball cap and sunglasses to elude any possible celebrity chasers) and changing swiftly before taking the hired cab across the city. Cutting across to the Old City district was interesting, and Holly drank in the sight of the steeple of Christ Church as they approached, the white spire above the solid brick and arched windows lovely. She envied her friend's luck; that she and Aaron had snagged a slot in August at the same church and grounds where John Penn and Benjamin Franklin were buried was really neat, in her eyes. Though it sounded morbid, she wondered if she would be able to sneak off and find their gravestones to pay respects.

Texting ahead to announce her arrival, she was met at the door by Sarah's father Mark, his light brown hair thinning even more so since the last time she'd seen him. In his unhurried, Virginian drawl, he welcomed her, ushering her inside. Just beyond him was Jane, the older woman's blonde hair pinned back and her arms constricting around her in a hug. Admonishing her for not bringing the baby, she crowed in sympathy when she heard of his distress and difficulties. Between the pair of them, pouring over the PDF itinerary documents on her phone, she and Holly were able to sort out all that was going on. According to her, both groomsmen and bridesmaids (and Junior Bridesmaid; it wouldn't do to forget Aaron's little sister Caroline's title) were milling in the main area, which she could see for herself. When she wasn't gaping at the gorgeous white columns or the two-toned pews, that was; wow, did Sarah get lucky for having that church as the venue.

And speaking of the blonde whirlwind...

"Thank God, the lifesaver is here!" Sarah blurted out when she spotted her friend coming up the aisle, the pound of her feet against the floor as she jogged to her serving as the only warning before she was drawn into a hug. It had been months since the two friends had seen each other, and she was not about to let another second go by without embracing Holly. For her part, the taller brunette wrapped her arms around the blonde, grinning as she rocked her back and forth before letting go.

"Wow, that is quite a title to live up to," she stated, sheepishly scratching at the back of her neck when she flicked her gaze across the room. She waved at Aaron, the taller fellow's face lighting up happily when he spotted her. As he was amidst the groomsmen, she nearly snorted when all of them turned to follow his gaze. Some of them stared at her, almost like they were trying to place her, and she sighed. That was something else to deal with, later. For the moment, though, she focused on her best friend.

"Right behind author, wife, mother...and just ahead of smart-ass," the green-eyed beauty affirmed, ticking off the points on her fingers and cutting through her thoughts. Her snarky grin was unmistakable, and Holly rolled her eyes playfully.

"I feel like the order should be rearranged a bit," she mumbled, pulling out her phone and huffing a bit. Scrolling down, she jabbed a finger at the screen and continued, "Anyway, I took another look at the itinerary on the way in, and it looks like everything is in order. According to your mom, at least. I suppose now that I'm here, the minister is going to want to start the rehearsal. And besides that, so long as Aaron or his dad don't light themselves on fire at the rehearsal dinner barbecue, I think we should be fine for tonight, too."

Glancing up, she noticed the admiration in Sarah's gaze as she nodded confidently. "See? Lifesaver."

Holly held up a hand, smirking at her friend. "Hold off calling me that until after tomorrow. Gotta earn it."

The rehearsal went off well enough, with only one of Sarah's cousins tripping over her feet as she was escorted down the aisle, and Aaron's sister sneezing on his step-sister's back causing a bit of a squabble to break out as the pastor tried to take them through the mock candle lighting ceremony. After the final false speech was glossed over, and the bridesmaids listened to her admonishments to be up and ready by eight the next morning, the majority had adjourned to the park nearest to the church. Holly followed shortly after with Jane and Sarah's grandmother, the three women in charge of getting the pew decorations in place for the following day. By now tired and starving, the young woman was more than pleased to take her share of ribs and coleslaw, nearly inhaling it as she shuffled into the seat beside her friend. Sarah merely shook her head, taking a massive bite of her pulled pork sandwich and laughing when Holly did. Over dinner and with only a few interruptions (the groomsmen finally realized who she was, and had attempted to ask her questions about Steve before Aaron stepped in and shooed them away with his spatula), the two women caught up. Where Holly's life had taken a decidedly maternal turn, Sarah's career was starting to ramp up. She and a few of her fellow dance instructors had found some adequate studio space in Maryland, and in September, the newly-minted couple would move to Annapolis to begin the fall classes. Aaron was able to secure a transfer to another Apple store in the area, as he considered taking classes and getting his master's degree—even though he already had a bachelor's in computer science as it was, but it was still in the discussion stage. When the wedding was paid off, there was always the option, her friend muttered, and she nodded with her. As they had moved on, discussing Steve's promotion and new duties as a commander, their conversation was halted when someone moved into Holly's peripheral vision.

A stately woman, her gray hair combed back into a neat bun and her day dress fitting her person well, had marched up to them, hands folded behind her back and her bright gaze raking over them. It was all Holly could do to stop herself from standing at attention; she'd heard stories about Steve's drill instructor, and she got the impression that this woman would be of the same caliber. Sarah stiffened in her seat, her pleasant expression taking on a hard edge. Before either could say a word to her, she spoke.

"You are Holly, correct? The matron of honor?" the elderly woman asked, her tone smooth and even. All her focus zoomed in on her, and Sarah breathed hard out her nose, though only Holly heard it.

"Yep, that's me," Holly confirmed, squinting a little as she tried to remember the older woman's name. "And you're Aaron's grandmother, Lucille?"

"Hmm, yes," she said, her brows twitching closer together. Pleasantries were exchanged between them, though it would have been impossible to ignore the obvious way Lucille was ignoring Sarah. She all but turned her back to exclude her from the conversation, which irritated Holly. However, she remained polite, thinking it would be the best way to end the exchange with the least amount of blood drawn. As her friend's grip tightened around her utensil (and just as Holly started to wonder if she was going to stop Sarah from launching it at her), Lucille murmured, "I understand that you recently became a mother as well."

At that, Holly's eyes skirted over the crowd of friends and relations. Word certainly traveled fast.

"Yes, ma'am," she responded, a tired smile gracing her features. "We have a little boy, just over a month old."

However, instead of any form of congratulations or questions in regards to the baby's well-being, the older woman merely sniffed. Her head tilted, and Holly got the distinct impression that she was looking down her nose at her, nearly literally.

"It's odd. That he's not here with you, I mean," Lucille clarified, the tone of her voice becoming frostier by the second. "Or your husband, for that matter."

Holly's smile froze for a moment, the blatant undertone of distaste in the words hitting her ears hard. Lucille's gaze was tracking over the party then, as though either man or child would pop in that instant, but when neither did, she directed it back onto her. Blinking, she merely lifted a shoulder at the older woman.

"Well, he wasn't doing too well on the car ride down," she explained, her lips twitching sadly as she considered her poor baby's predicament. "Steve elected to stay at the hotel and get him settled."

As well as that, he did not want to show up and take attention away from the bride- and groom-to-be. He fairly fell on the chance to stay out of the limelight, assuring her that he would get Grant and himself taken care of in her absence. She merely promised to bring him back some barbecue and left them both with a kiss and a promise to text him with updates as the evening wore on.

Now Lucille really was looking down her nose at her, like she'd committed a crime. "So you came alone, and left him behind."

The brunette inclined her eyebrows, her tone taking on an edge of challenge. "I trust my husband to take care of our son for a few hours. It is part of being a father, right?"

"Yet you're the mother," the grandmother replied, emphasizing the final word as though she were too dense to understand her point. As soon as it hit her eardrums, Holly could not stop her eyes from widening, nor could she stop Lucille as she built up steam to continue. "Where you should be is—"

"Lucille!" someone called across the pavilion (Aaron's grandfather, thank goodness; later on, Holly would consider writing the man a thank-you note for his timely intervention), and her tirade was interrupted. Frowning, she drew in a deep breath, her spine going ramrod straight as she tipped a final nod down at her.

"Excuse me," she stated, a withering glance shot at Sarah before she walked away.

"Sure," Holly said, waiting until the older woman was out of earshot before turning to her friend. "What the hell was that all about?"

Sarah's sour expression surfaced then, and she stabbed at her coleslaw for a few seconds. "She hates me; therefore she hates anyone associated with me."

Holly's brow furrowed at that, the scar on her forehead pronounced as she did so. "So she's the grandma you were complaining about that one time. The rest of the family seems to like you."

The petite blonde raised a single finger at that. "Correction: the rest of the family loves me."

"Of course," Holly riposted, the corner of her mouth curling in an attempt at humor. The two young women let it hold sway for a few moments before Sarah spoke again (before Holly could ask why, the question written all over her face).

"It probably has to do with the fact that I'm not the girl she wanted Aaron to marry." Off Holly's questioning glance, she elaborated, "She had someone picked out for him, a neighbor of hers."

When Holly gaped, Sarah's eyes widened in commiseration.

"I know, right? Like this is 1855 and arranged marriages are still a common thing. She'd been trying to get them together for years, kept pushing them together at neighborhood parties and shit when he visited. Then he met me, and I shot all her plans to hell." Another stab at the coleslaw, and one of the tines broke off. Huffing under her breath, she grumbled, "And she lets me know it, all the time. When she deigns to speak to me, of course."

The brunette snorted at that. "Lovely woman."

Sarah flapped a hand, pushing away the ire as best she could. "Just don't take what she says to heart. Seriously, you'll go crazy if you let her get to you."

Assuring her that she wouldn't, Holly kept a steady eye out for the older woman. "And don't you, either."

Sarah tossed her hair, brushing off the notion entirely before rising to replace her broken fork. Unconsciously, Holly's fingers started to rub at her temples preemptively. She just hoped she would not be the one to stand up at the 'speak now or forever hold your peace' portion of the ceremony the next day. As on edge as Sarah would be, she couldn't guarantee that she wouldn't be the one to act upon her impulses if such a thing happened.

Good Lord, she hoped the next day would go well.

 **xXxXxXx**

That Saturday dawned with sparse sprinkles in the air, disappearing by the time the separate wedding parties had stirred themselves out of the rooms and out to the breakfast buffet on the first floor. Holly was, inevitably, late, as Grant had needed a feeding and a diaper change, with it warping into the poor little guy needing to be totally washed up and Steve feeling obliged to take the clothing casualties to the on-site laundry for them all. Running back and forth between the meeting room to make sure he got some of the complimentary food and wolfing down her own, she soon enough got on course, tugging her last clean shirt to lie right as she took stock of Sarah and the rest of their party before heading out to the salon.

For her part, the petite blonde was practically glowing, even at that early hour. Sure, her hands were shaking like crazy and she reflexively went up en pointe to rid herself of the excess energy, but despite that, she appeared to be in good spirits (her exercises were hampered when she was wrangled into a chair, forced to be still as her hair was swept up). Holly's own nerves were alight, but to a lesser degree, as she was able to sit patiently enough when it was her turn.

"Any pearls of wisdom to drop, by the way? With your vast experience?" Sarah asked her after a few moments, taking the empty chair beside her as the stylist twisted her hair. With the small tiara perched within her curls, Sarah looked lovely, though the effect was somewhat at odds with the quirk of her brow. Just stopping herself from canting her head, she flapped a free hand in the air.

"Work it out so that taking out the trash is his chore?" Holly jested, waggling her eyebrows slightly. Even as Sarah laughed, her best friend could see the earnestness remaining in her expression. Though Jane doted on her daughter, she knew that the younger woman wanted a contemporary's encouragement, wanted to hear something from someone who had more recent knowledge of the married state. And so she bit her lip, thinking hard before lighting upon a genuine answer. "Um, well, I suppose the best advice I can give is...even if you get supremely busy and don't think you have enough time, you still have it. Spend it together, where you can."

Touched by the genuine nature of her words, all the blonde woman could do was nod and smile wanly, taking her friend's hand in hers and squeezing for a few seconds.

"Okay."

When her hand was released, Holly attempted levity once more, to settle her friend's nerves. "And the trash thing, too. Don't forget that."

To her relief and delight, Sarah actually threw her head back and laughed, the energy of the morning pushing on it hard.

"Oh, that I'm taking to heart," she riposted, swiping carefully at her eyes so as to not ruin the make-up that had been applied earlier.

With all the bridesmaids attended to and fixed up, they all moved onto the church, the basement rooms designated for changing into their dresses and assembling the last of their ensembles (all of which had been brought by Jane and Sarah's grandmother, respectively). The blush dresses chosen by Sarah allowed her to stand out in her ball gown, the simplicity of their designs showing off the beading and the sparkle on the bodice. Which was just fine with Holly; it wasn't her day, after all, and frankly, she always expected her dance-competition-inspired friend to have a good deal of flash for her outfit. Bouquets were handed out, the groom's ring secured on her thumb, and before she knew it, the photographer was bidding them all to come upstairs. After standing dutifully for pictures, it came time to assemble the line of bridesmaids, pairing them off with their groomsmen escorts. They had largely eschewed the tradition of full suits, jackets deemed unnecessary, but they all still looked stately. Twitching the slight train on Sarah's dress in place, she left the placement of the veil in Mr. Collins' capable hands. Taking her place at the best man's side (a man called Charlie, a dusty-haired fellow who had been Aaron's roommate in college), she forced her shoulders to relax for a few moments, letting the tension run out for a brief second before resuming her posture. As the strains of the violins on the track played on the sound system within, her eyes darted around, focusing when she spotted the tall, blond man in the back pew. Steve winked at her as she passed, holding up their son in silent assurance that they were both well, his little romper emulating his father's suit. It was much easier to proceed when she was certain that her husband and boy were there, and so she walked easily up to the nave with the best man. Pride and happiness filled her as Sarah started up the aisle with her father, the earlier jitters in her person having been banished by the time she reached her fiance. Aaron, his smile growing wider by the second, eagerly took her hand when her father gave her over, the excitement clear enough that even the minister chuckled before picking up where he'd left off.

A loud huffed echoed at some point when the vows were exchanged, but before anybody could react, it was silenced, and before long—after a squabble-less candle lighting—the newly married couple of Mister and Missus Aaron Johnson were pronounced, the joyful tears she'd been suppressing shooting up even as caught Sarah's flung bouquet and laughed at the enthusiastic kiss the couple shared.

With the ceremony over and the marriage certificate signed, it was time to move onto the reception. The hall that had been rented had its dining area upstairs, a grand staircase of dark wood lined with thick runners leading up to it. (Part of her wondered exactly how much Sarah's parents had shelled out for their only daughter's wedding, but as she passed into the main room and spotted the ornate flower arrangements on each table, she figured it was more than what she'd initially ball-parked it at.) The tables were laid out with the couples chosen colors, blush and cream bows tied to all of the chairs as the food was served. Deputized to mingle instead of adhering to a receiving line, Holly used the excuse to thread through everybody and touch base with Steve in regards to his and the baby's well-being. Thus far, no one but the wedding attendants had realized that the former Captain America was in town, and even if the news broke out that evening, it was unlikely they would be caught out. Soon enough, she was drawn back, helping Aaron guide Sarah up to the top table and ensuring that the chair legs did not land on the skirt of the dress. Eating as fast as she could, she found herself laughing her way through Charlie's speech when it came, his viewpoint of the artistic side of Aaron being brought out by the blushing bride, and wishing them many happy years together. Hers followed shortly thereafter, and when she raised her glass in the final toast, she felt a massive rush of relief flood through her when the others joined in, applause ringing them as she bent and hugged her friend fiercely (both women would later deny that her words had made them both cry, and would instead accuse the other squeezing too hard), before doing the same for Aaron. Once the plates cleared, she took the opportunity to slip away, melding into the crowd as she moved towards the table at the back. It was mostly empty now, a good portion of the attendees having either gotten up to mingle or grab drinks from the cash bar. All except for two, that was.

"Finally got a moment," Holly exhaled as she approached the table, going around to her husband. Laying her arm across Steve's shoulders (he'd removed his jacket at some point in the evening, with it slung over the back of his chair), she smiled to herself as he reached up, curling an arm around her waist and drawing her in closer. After he congratulated her on her speech, she merely lifted a shoulder and shook her head, turning her attention to where their son was resting. "How is it going?"

He smirked then, flicking a significant glance down to the baby in the portable seat. " _Someone_ here has been getting a lot of attention from the ladies."

It would have been hard not to notice the people who would stop by Steve's table, as he was easily the most well-known guest to appear at the wedding. However, a good portion of them had taken the time to greet Grant, cooing at him over the course of the cocktail hour and dinner. The little guy's one-piece suit seemed to have been a hit, and it was something of a relief to have attention deflected to their son rather than having it focused on him. Mostly it was older women, mothers and aunts who took delight in Grant's ensemble and his father's obvious satisfaction, but very few others were immune to the infant's charms (when he wasn't upset, of course). Hearing that, Holly grinned and knelt down beside the car seat, wanting to be on a level with her son.

"Aw, our own little heart-breaker, huh?" she teased, twitching the sewn-on tie on his suit. Upon seeing his mother a bit more clearly, Grant gurgled, his little fists curling and thumping into the blanket around his hips. Cooing nonsense at him for a few seconds, she eventually lifted him out of his seat, straightening and holding him close. She patted his back gently, not wishing to trigger a spit-up that could lead to more at that moment. Cradling his head, she pulled him back enough for a few seconds to look at her son directly. "You've been such a good boy so far tonight."

Praise given, her gaze flicked to Steve, who was watching them with a fond expression. A bit of cheekiness invaded her, and she smirked.

"Suppose that goes for both of you," she said, situating Grant before reaching out and tapping the end of Steve's nose. His hand came up, batting her fingers away as he gave a mocking laugh.

"So funny," he retorted, fighting back a grin as he spoke. "Yes, we have been. He nodded off earlier, and I got him changed and gave him a bottle a few minutes ago. Not too fussy, even with all the extra attention he's been getting." Holly's pride shone strongly in her eyes as she nuzzled the baby's hair, and then he sighed aloud. "Also got an earful of advice from Aaron's grandmother when she came around."

All at once, her good humor drained away, and she narrowed her eyes. Her gaze darted across the room, spotting the woman in question. Even from that distance, Lucille's grim expression was clear, her back ramrod straight as she sat at a table in the far corner and held up her glass to a passing waiter for a refill. She had been wandering around earlier, like so many of the other attendees, but she hadn't gone out of her way to keep track of her. Part of her now wished she would have done so.

"Yeah, I bet you did," the younger woman nearly snapped. Shaking her head, she inhaled deeply, preparing herself for the answer to her next question. "What did she say?"

Steve looked at her for a long moment. The night before, when she had returned from the rehearsal dinner, she had commented on the elderly woman's sideways glances and snide remarks. They had not been limited to just her, though; Sarah had endured far more than her matron of honor had, and even the precious grandson getting married had been stung by a petty retort here and there. The blond man truly did not want to add fuel to that fire, but when he had been inadvertently struck as well, he could not hold back for long.

Shrugging, he reported, "Something about how a mother shouldn't be off gallivanting and abandoning her husband and baby when they need her. I politely disagreed with her opinions and asked her to move along."

Dark eyes widened at him, and Holly's jaw went slightly slack in shock. The remark had hit far harder than he had anticipated, and he knew that damage control would be necessary.

"From what I gathered, she hasn't been endearing herself to anybody tonight." A hand reached up, his palm laid atop hers as she supported their son. "And, frankly, I didn't give a damn about what she had to say, so I just let her flap her gums and kept Grant out of her reach."

The color that had drained out of his wife's face returned as a flush, mottled red in her cheeks as she inhaled deeply.

"I wasn't... _gallivanting_ ," she crowed out, voice cracking on the derisive word. The woman barely knew her, and yet pronounced judgment so quickly? Holly was under no illusions regarding people in general, knowing she would not be a favorite with everyone. But the rancor caught her off-guard, caught her when she was attempting to do everything that needed to be done. How dare she? How _dare_ she? Grant cooed against her shoulder, his little fist tightening and shaking a bit, thumping against her. Attempting to clear her throat, she croaked, "I, I..."

Her bottom hit the seat of an empty chair nearby, Steve having guided her down when he knew her mild distaste had warped into distress.

"Hey, hey. Listen to me, okay?" he implored, his careful baritone reverberating in her ears. His palm cupped one cheek, his touch bringing her out of the dark swirl of her thoughts, little by little. Waiting until she looked him in the eye again, he told her, "You've been doing great. With everything."

He nodded towards the newlyweds, where Sarah was whispering something to Aaron, looking thrilled and happy, despite the long hours. Holly had, no doubt, been as steadying to her as she had been when they were married. And still she was taking time to check on them, even if it was only for a few seconds every so often during the night. No old woman could diminish her efforts, on her best friend's behalf or her child's.

"It's not worth your time," he said firmly, fingers sweeping at the tendril of hair left loose from the styling. His gentle ministrations anchored her, allowed her to take a few collective breaths and calm herself. Her gaze scanned his face, warmth returning as the anger was pushed down.

"Still my hero," she murmured, leaning into his touch and rewarding him with a gentle grin. After a few seconds, she cleared her throat, resolutely nodded and stiffening her spine, ready to brush aside the minor hurt that was dealt to her. "Alright, enough of that. Got the earmuffs on him early, I see."

Watching as her finger came up and slipped along the plastic coverings over their son's ears, he inclined his head.

"I scoped out the music set-up downstairs a few minutes ago," he confided easily, crossing his arms over his chest and grimacing slightly. "Trust me, it would scare the ever-livin' out of him if it didn't completely obliterate his eardrums first once they're fired up. Forewarned, forearmed. Good find, by the way."

Holly lifted a fist, pumping it and sporting a triumphant look on her face. "Online shopping win."

Steve smiled at that, but it faded slightly as he thought of something else. "Still...did you have to get him those ones, specifically?"

She sighed loudly, looking at the star-spangled design all over the elastic bands.

"Believe me, I tried to get another color. They were out of everything but 'Stars and Stripes.' And they were the only ones that would be shipped fast," she explained, the only downside of the protective device. Since he was no longer Captain America, there had been something of an embargo put on any items coming to their house that sported the flag. It may have sounded unpatriotic, but frankly, she could see why he was sick of it. And she had scoured the web pages, trying to find some that were in the price range she was looking for and a different design. Nothing, though, was ready to go within a few days' time, and so she reckoned they could endure it for a night. Shrugging a shoulder, she muttered, "It's like they knew, or something. Oh, well. His ears are protected, that's the important part."

He dipped his chin at that. "True."

A few quiet moments passed, the couple enjoying each other's company as the whirl of the party went on around them, chattering with their little boy on and off. Holly's brow furrowed after a few seconds, concentrating hard on her son as she moved him to lay cradled in her arms. Curious, Steve was about to ask her what she was considering when she let out a giggle, the furrow dropping and the thinking line in her forehead disappearing.

"Know what I just realized?" she inquired rhetorically, running a finger over the spangled band on her son's head. Shaking his head, her husband did not have to wait long for the answer. "He kinda looks like that one swimmer's baby when they had him at the Olympics in Rio, in the stands. The Phelps guy, his kid."

Spiking an eyebrow, he stared down at the baby, a snort and a laugh following after a few moments.

"Oh, yeah, he kinda does. Minus the suit."

As the remainder of dinner wound down, it was inevitable that the newlyweds would make their rounds, greeting guests and taking time to speak to the ones they wished to connect with. Slowly but surely, the couple found their way towards the back, where Steve and Holly were still seated. Catching sight of their arrival, the commander rose out of his chair, taking his wife's elbow and helping her up.

"Hey, Aaron, Sarah," he greeted them both, relaying his congratulations as the small woman caught him around the middle for a hug. Trapped in white tulle and satin for a few seconds, he soon enough was freed, and could shake the groom's hand properly. Aaron, for his part, looked well; his hair had grown out since its last cut, though it had been gathered into a ponytail for the day's events. His light eyes lit up, his broad stance widening as he accepted his congratulations, sending them back as Holly shifted Grant into his father's arms. As Sarah drew her off to one side, a hushed exchange passing between the two, both of their husbands looked on them fondly.

"Strange. A lot's changed in the last couple of years," Aaron remarked idly, his hands slipping into his pockets.

Grant hummed a little then, and Steve exhaled sharply. "Truer words…"

The younger man's irises lit up with a flash of mischief for a split second. "Who'd have thought it would be me going on a honeymoon to New Jersey?"

Steve blinked at that and coughed. "What?"

Aaron held up a hand, barely subduing a laugh. "Just kidding. Got a killer deal on a beach house in the Outer Banks. The Garden State will just have to wait until the second."

Forcing out a chuckle, Steve lifted a shoulder. "I suppose so."

Suddenly, pealing laughs were shared by their two companions, the blonde covering her mouth with her hand as the brunette tipped her head back and gave into the moment, her fingers clutching at her friend's shoulder, and the fondness grew.

"...How did I get so lucky?" the young man said, staring at Sarah like she was the only thing he'd ever seen, that he'd ever want to see. Unbeknownst to him, a similar look decorated Steve's face, save that his attention was on Holly. He grinned before dropping his eyes onto his son in his arms.

"Been trying to figure out the answer to that for awhile now," he murmured, rocking the little guy for a second or two. Glancing up at Aaron, he murmured, "Let me know if you find out, will ya?"

Fondly, the other man nodded, a final handshake shared as they parted ways.

Soon enough, those who remained for the after-dinner festivities were directed downstairs to the hall, the floor opened and the DJ churning out the first of the pre-selected songs. The parquet floor was wide and long, decorative pieces strung to the ceiling and the fairy lights along the darkened windows joining in the soft illumination from the overheads. High-top table lined the walls, provided the party-goers with a pace to rest and set their drinks when they made their way to the second bar along the far wall. Both mother and father were infinitely glad for the earmuffs; Grant barely stirred, his wide-eyed glances not accompanied by sad wails. The obligatory dances were had, with Holly partnering with the groom and best man once apiece, but she often took refuge at her husband's side, resting with him as the night wore on. He endured the modern music set as well as he could, occasionally nodding his head to the beat and chuckled at some of the absurd lyrics.

Checking the watch perched to his wrist, Steve felt his lips turn down as the hour was turning far too late to keep the baby out.

"I should probably get him back to the hotel and to bed," he told Holly when she'd returned to his side, a small crisis averted when Sarah's cousin's strap broke on her dress. With some bobby pins and sheer willpower, she'd helped secure it, and she was basking in the victory. Upon his announcement, she let her eyebrows incline, a glimmer fluttering over her gaze.

"You just want an out yourself, huh, old man?" she chided him with faux sternness, her arms going around her waist.

"Whippersnapper," he growled at her, pulling her closer even so. Holding her tight, he went on, "Don't worry about rushing back, alright? I've got him; you should have fun tonight."

As he moved to scoop the baby seat off of the table, he was stopped by her hand gripping his bicep.

"Wait. One dance, before you go?" she asked, her palm sliding down and taking her hand in his. Her thumb brushed over the skin, glancing over his wedding ring as she stared up at him. "Just you and I? Please?"

Blinking, he licked his lips, wavering in his concession when he glanced down at the infant starting to nod off.

"Who would watch Grant?"

"Jane already said she would," she told him, nodding over to Sarah's mother briefly. She'd asked her well in advance if she could do so, if Steve felt up to joining her out on the floor that evening, and the older woman had agreed, just as taken with the baby as many others were. Her brown eyes went wide, and she laid a palm on his chest, over his heart. "I trust her. Please, Steve?"

In less than a few seconds, he felt his minute resolve crumble. Saying no was beyond him, and honestly, he did not feel like doing so, anyway. Not with her.

"...Sure, doll."

Smiling broadly, Holly scooped up the car seat, weaving between the leftover couples and friends to get to Jane. A few words were exchanged, and then the older woman was taking the seat's handle, bringing it up to rest atop the high-top table nearby. He snickered to himself as Sarah's mother turned it to face the dance floor, pointing exaggeratedly as Holly returned and took his hand. Steve allowed her to guide him out as the next song began to play, a few other couples stepping out and dotting the floor as well. She selected an area away from the center of the floor, closer to the fringes so that attention would not be drawn to them. Turning to her, hands moved into their proper positions—shoulder, back, and the remaining two joined—as the song played on. Etta James' voice crooned over the speakers, enveloping them as Steve led. In comparison to some on the floor, they weren't terribly skilled, but they were glad enough to be in one another's arms, and there was enthusiasm there. When they tried for it, of course, which he did in lifting her hand and twirling her around slowly, with her giggling as she went.

"Showing off your skills to your old instructor?" she asked him when he brought her back from the spin. It was due to Sarah's efforts two years ago that had even lent him the confidence to ask her to do so in the first place, and she had to wonder if that was the basis for his attempt.

"Of course," he retorted, false pride in his tone as he turned them both. Grinning ruefully, he chanced a glance downward, watching their feet for a couple seconds. "Although, the fact that I'm not stepping on your toes is already a great sign of my progress, I think."

"Sarah would be proud. Were she able to see anything else right now, I mean," she said, nodding over to where her best friend was dancing with her new husband, heads close and arms tight around one another. It was impossible to miss the joy and devotion in the blonde woman's eyes, or how it was returned threefold by Aaron. Smiling softly, she moved a little closer to her own man. "It's sweet."

"Yeah, it is," Steve agreed easily enough, having followed her gaze. Winking at her, he teased, "Should we tell them it's all downhill from here?"

She smirked up at him. "Probably. But maybe they should figure that out themselves. They'll never learn, otherwise."

"Very good point," he conceded. Glancing across the floor again, he stepped and brought them into another turn before postulating, "Suppose we shouldn't pick on them too hard. That was us just over a year ago."

Her eyebrows inclined at that, a joking edge in her voice as she asked, "Was?"

Here he abandoned all proper form, laying her other hand on his shoulder before curling both of his arms around her waist. Still turning slowly, his mouth bowed into a half-smile as he leaned his forehead down against hers.

"Is."

She gave a low hum at that, toying with his collar. "Charmer."

The tip of his nose bumped hers, and he shrugged. "Nah."

The final strains of the song echoed around them, and their steps slowed, the air around them undisturbed for several seconds.

Clearing her throat, Holly stepped back soon enough, jokingly attempting an abbreviated curtsey. "Thank you for the dance, sir."

A few chuckles rolled out of Steve, but he merely took her hands in his, threading their fingers together.

"My pleasure, ma'am," he replied, squeezing once before releasing her palms from his. His arm moved to curl around her waist, leading her off the floor and back to where their baby was resting. With quiet thanks given to Jane, he scooped up the handle of the car seat, taking a look at their half-dozing son and sighing. "Alright, buddy, it's time to say good night to Mommy."

Holding it up a little higher with ease, he waited until Holly had given the infant a kiss on the cheek.

"Night-night, Baby Boy," she told Grant, before using the extra inches provided by her heels to lean up and kiss her husband on the cheek. Not satisfied with that, his lips caught hers for a proper kiss, drawing back after a few seconds. Her breath ghosted over his lips when she found her voice again. "Good night."

"See you later," he returned, the keys in his pocket and his jacket coming to hand. With his grip firm around the car seat's handle, a final buss was pressed to her forehead before he and their son departed. Watching them slip away without being disturbed, she exhaled sharply, pivoting on her heel and being startled by Sarah. He petite blonde had sneaked up behind her, and she had a teasing, smug look affixed to her face.

"Aw, that was so cute it made me nauseous," she crooned, earning a wry laugh for her efforts.

"Yeah, tell me that again when he's up and screaming at three in the morning," Holly replied, hooking a thumb in the direction her family had gone.

"The baby or Steve?" Sarah teased. Striding forward, her dress swished as she stepped up to her friend, her grip securing around her wrist and tugging her back towards the dance floor. Pop beats started to flood through the speakers, and she tugged harder. "C'mon, we've got some NSYNC and Backstreet Boys to make fools of ourselves to before this shindig ends."

Holly snickered, her free hand holding up the skirt of her dress as she trotted after her. "Right behind you."

 **xXxXxXx**

It was well past midnight by the time Holly returned to the hotel room, her body feeling ragged and her feet sore. Sarah and Aaron had departed from the reception roughly an hour beforehand, but it had fallen on her, Sarah's cousin Mila, and the mother of the bride to see to the clean-up of the hall. The staff on-site was remarkably swift, tearing down their private set-ups as the night had worn on, but the personal decorations had to be gathered, and the gifts to be loaded in Jane's car. In truth, it was closer to 1 AM than not by the time she clambered into the backseat, wedging her shoes off as Mr. Collins drove them all back to their lodgings and groaning in relief. Her silver shoes dangled from her hand as she grabbed up a couple of presents, but noting the exhausted stoop of her body, both of Sarah's parents shooed her off, told her to go and get some rest. Grateful for their offer, she still attempted once more to help before Jane physically turned her away and frog-marched her to the elevator. The ride upstairs was short, thankfully, and she crept down the hall to the room, bare feet cushioned by the carpeting. Another breath of relief coursed out her mouth when she arrived at the correct door, digging her copy of the key card out of her bra (built into her slip; one less thing to put on and take off that day) with alacrity. A swipe in, a click, and she was totally free.

Well, nearly. She still had to get her hair down, the dress off, and clean her face. And odds were that Grant would wake up and need a feeding, at least...still, she was officially off the wedding duties hook until the morning, and that was just fine.

Keeping the door propped open until she could find a light switch, she snapped on the one that illuminated the entry. Turning the handle so that it would shut silently behind her, she clicked the locks into place while gauging her surroundings. At the far end, the fringes of the light pool caught the edges of their suitcase propped beside the dresser. In the dark far corner, she could make out the table and chairs shoved to the side, making room for the travel bassinet where her son was sleeping. Glancing over to the bed, she watched as her husband slumbered, comforter knotted around his waist and his back to her. Thinking that perhaps he actually slept through her arrival, she lowered her shoes to the ground, carefully stepping towards the nightstand, her phone removed from its resting place in the other cup of her bra and plugged into the charger. Thus unburdened by it and the key card now resting beside it, she crept towards the bathroom to begin cleaning herself up.

Taking the measure of her appearance in the mirror as she flooded the small room with light and half-shut the door, Holly inhaled deeply, tired eyes darting over her appearance. Deciding that her hair would be the most time-consuming, she chose to get all of the pins out first. Resting a hip against the counter, she started to pluck them out one by one, dropping them around the basin to rest wherever they fell. Glancing down as one plunked into the sink, she was startled when the door was pushed open, her husband yawning and stepping up behind her. The race of her heartbeat made her breath stutter, and she frowned at him. He merely shrugged and looped his arms around her, pulling her back to rest against him. Brushing her brief fright and annoyance off, she relaxed in his embrace for a few seconds. She was ready to fall asleep right there, but she wouldn't let herself do so. Straightening up, she leaned forward again, hands going into her tresses.

"Go back to sleep, Stevie," she mumbled, struggling to pull out a bobby pin that felt like it was connected to six others and pulling at her scalp. She caught his amused look in the mirror, the use of his rarely-given nickname making him shake his head at her.

"In a minute," he told her, his tone low in deference to the sleeping baby in the next room. His fingers curled around the tiny hook above her zipper, and he murmured, "You work on your hair, I'll help get the dress off."

An inelegant snort ripped out of her, and she giggled when she met his gaze in the mirror again.

"Eager, aren't we?"

The sudden flood of heat in his baby blues would have, at another time, inspired more than a mere smirk out of her. However, he lowered his head, his lips barely pressing to the bare skin of her shoulder before he went back to work.

"Yes, but not tonight," he almost whispered, a stray shiver running down her back and breaking through her exhaustion. Exhaling lowly, he blinked and stated, "I'd prefer you not to be nearly unconscious, were we even able to...well. No, just get your hair down, and we'll go to bed."

Now was definitely not the time, not when she was ready to curl up in the bath tub and nod off, and not when she still was healing. And he knew that, all too well. The logic and care in the words broke through, and she dropped the joke.

"'Kay," she agreed, and that was that.

Her fingers worked as quickly as they could, her fatigued state making her hands a little shaky as she pulled them out one by one. She paused in her task only when the single strap of her gown was tugged, her arm lowering in response. Once it was shrugged off, her husband guided the dress down, waiting as she stepped out of it. The last pin was extracted just as her strapless slip was pulled down and off, and she bent quickly to wash her face as he crooked both garments to hang on the curtain rod. Face scrubbed clear of make-up and her hair freed, she let out a low groan, just wishing she was in bed already. Belatedly, she realized she'd forgotten to grab her sleepwear before going into the bathroom, and she cut a glance towards the half-opened door. Crossing her arms over her bare chest, she took one step in its direction before Steve moved into her path. Understanding her predicament, he dragged the hem of his shirt up, pulling it off and turning it right-side out before proffering it to her. The weak protest that bloomed in her irises was gone with a sigh, her taking the shirt and putting it on, giving a little shiver as the residual heat in the threads coasted over her skin. Somewhat attired for bed, she moved towards the door again, only to be stopped by him once more. As he bent a little at the waist and reached for her, her eyebrows inclined.

"You're not gonna..." she trailed off when he scooped her up, answering her question in that way. She harrumphed quietly, even as her arms looped around him and she nuzzled against his shoulder. "You don't have to carry me."

A low hum reverberated in his throat, but he made no move to put her down.

"I know, you can walk on your own two feet. But you were three seconds away from hitting the floor," he pointed out bluntly, maneuvering them both out the door and out into the main area of the room. "Didn't want you to get injured. We don't need another trip to the hospital so soon."

Her eyes fluttered, and she couldn't be bothered to even pretend to kid around.

"Thank you," she said instead, the rock of his body as he carried her lulling her deeper. Before he could get to the bed, her head popped up, a sudden thought jarring her. Tapping a finger on his neck, she crowed quietly, "Wait. Take me to the bassinet first."

In the low light, she could see the thinning of his lips, could see that he was about to insist otherwise. To that, she shot him a look filled with resolution, one that in the end he could not fight against. Once had taken her across the room and she was set upon her feet, she looked down at the sleeping baby, undisturbed in the least. Pressing two fingers to her lips, she then laid them gently at the crown of the swaddled infant's head, a final good-night given.

"Love you, little guy," she said, taking a step back and letting Steve pick her up again. Soon enough, Holly was deposited upon the bed, the covers pulled over her as she nestled into her pillow. Her husband then went around, shutting off the lights in the room before going back to the bed. By the time he'd returned, he saw that Holly was sitting upright, her phone in hand. The screen lit up her face, intense concentration written all over it. Climbing up beside her, he spiked an eyebrow in the dark at her.

"What are you doing?"

"Setting the alarm," she replied, tapping through to the correct application. "Morning-after breakfast, have to be there."

As far as he was concerned, that was it. At once, Steve plucked the device from her hands, rolling over and leaning far out to keep her from snatching it back. Swiftly, he shut the phone off, tucking it into the drawer of the nightstand on his side. At her hushed squawks and gasps in indignation, he huffed out a grumble of his own.

"If Grant doesn't wake you up, I will. No alarm." He had watched her run herself ragged since daybreak, and was already tired more often than not as it was. He didn't want her to go through a repeat of what had happened a couple of weeks ago. Not for the sake of an arbitrary itinerary. In the dark, his arms wound around her, his touch persuading her to lay down. He was met with a little resistance, but eventually, he felt the course grumble of breath pass over his chest, her hair tickling his skin as she laid her head on it. "Besides, I doubt Aaron and Sarah will be rushing anywhere in the morning. I know we didn't. Sleep."

A scoff shot out of her, but she otherwise stayed put.

"Yes, sir," she breathed, and though he couldn't see it, she still lifted her hand up. A mocking, half-assed salute passed through the air, and she chuckled to herself. Her palm came down, landing lightly on his stomach and staying there as her eyes fully closed. "Love you."

"Love you, too," he responded, the arm around her back tightening slightly. The corners of his mouth turned up as he let his head rest on a pillow, a rogue tease shooting out of him before he could stop it. "Don't drool on me."

"So long as you don't snore," she retorted, able to fire off one more round and making his smile widen briefly. No more was said, as they both let themselves be pulled into sleep, lost to the world for a few peaceful hours.

In the end, Steve was right; even with their family arriving a little late to breakfast, they still beat the newlyweds to brunch by twenty minutes, and Holly could breathe a sigh of relief.

* * *

 **A/N:** I have had a hell of a week this week. Working everyday, with little free time...I had half of this chapter written for days, and only just got finished with writing and editing it. I am so sorry for being late! Hope the extreme length makes up for it.

March is super-busy...plus I had an interview today, so I was funneling my energy towards that. Keep your fingers crossed for me!

Like I said, this story is going to be fluffy as all-get-out at turns, and I think this chapter proved it. Christ Church is lovely; the interior is really pretty, but I would personally be concerned with it getting dirty all the time...so much white. Think of this chapter as a counterpoint for next week's which I intend to be a lot more serious, and involve more of the Avengers' side of things. Again, I will try my hardest to get it out on time, and hopefully I'll be able to figure out my schedule better to allow that.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, Apple Inc., NSYNC, Backstreet Boys, or Etta James and their music, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	4. Chapter 4

The fifth of September had rolled around much more swiftly than Holly Rogers expected it to, and suddenly she was expected to go back to her life, circa two months ago. Inevitably, maternity leave had to end, and soon enough she found herself bundled up in proper clothes, rushing about the house in an effort to pull everything together at the last second. Steve, having elected to go in to work at the same time as her, aided her as best he could, setting the kitchen to rights after breakfast and dressing their son for the day as she dodged between rooms. Desperately, she scooped up her laptop and some forms she had brought with her at the start of her leave, knowing full well she would need them at the base. Once all that was in his truck, she was meeting him at the back door, taking the baby's bag as he carried out Grant. Locking down the house, he muttered something to Grant as they eventually followed her into the garage. She couldn't say for certain what it was, but from the way he guiltily slid his glance to the back of the cab and blandly ignored her raised eyebrows, she could guess it probably had something to do with her state. Once all were strapped into their respective seats, they were off, the security set for the property as they went.

Roughly two miles before the turn-off for the frontage road that led to the base, Steve signaled a left, as was expected. As neither he nor Holly were intent on giving up their careers at that point, it had been necessary to secure daycare for Grant. Several options had been presented, but through one of her acquaintances at the base (a woman named Stacy; she worked in the research and development department, and was about to go on leave herself), she had gotten in touch with a highly recommended caretaker. Jan Masters was in her early fifties, but had years of experience with children, and had even worked at SHIELD as a daycare worker back when the Triskelion still existed. She had migrated with the majority of them when the new base was built, having reasoned that some of those who returned to the call of duty would inevitably be bringing their kids with them. A good portion of the workers at the base, from agents to janitors, had gone to her for the care of their little ones, and had thought it would be the best fit for them. After a couple of phone calls and a direct meeting at her house, while in the midst of caring for several children ranging from newborns to preschoolers, she was impressed with her warmth and enthusiasm. If they had to relinquish care of their baby to anyone, Holly supposed they could do worse than Jan.

The fact that she had once been an active agent, and therefore familiar with the dangers all too present in the lives of the children's parents, was actually somewhat of a benefit. She would be under no illusions, and had a lot more flexibility, should it be required of her.

The small, squat house was set back from the road by a graveled drive, another car leaving as they arrived. As Steve negotiated the vehicle in its turn and they approached the cream-colored home, Holly felt the churn in her gut increase. The closer they got, the more she glanced in the rear-view mirror, the back of the baby's car seat a frequent sight for her up until the truck was put into park. Threading a hand through the waves of her hair, Holly took in a deep breath before she followed her husband in getting out of the cab, though her quiet insistence of removing Grant from his car seat herself had him shooting her a concerned look.

Of course he was concerned, she thought to herself as she held her son close for a few small moments. She had been with their boy since his birth, had never strayed far for more than a couple hours at a time. It would be difficult to leave their little man with someone else, when she knew him so well. She could already feel herself beginning to miss him terribly as she rounded the truck, allowing Steve to guide her up to the front door, his palm in the small of her back and rubbing small circles. And while she inwardly chided herself for being silly and clingy, she couldn't quite bring herself to care. The door snapped open before they could even knock, the older woman smiling at them from her perch. She flicked her carrot-colored braid over her shoulder, glancing back in time as a couple of four-year-olds ran squealing from her helper behind her. Her expression indicated it was about par for the course for a Monday morning, but she did not seem disturbed, over all. Greeting them pleasantly, she accepted the diaper bag they'd put together, as well as their explanation that Grant ate twice as much as a typical infant, and they did not think it would be fair to deplete her supplies without helping in some way. She tutted at that, but still put the bag just inside the door. Another hello was saved especially for their son, the brightness of her eyes and the genuine nature of her mirth going a ways to ease the nerves inside the baby's mother. Slowly, gently, Holly passed her son into Jan's arms, her dark gaze riveted on the boy as he settled. The older woman rocked him a bit, a couple words of nonsense dripping as she held him close.

"Okay, Mr. Grant, better say bye-bye to Mommy and Daddy," Jan said, the mellow lilt of her voice capturing the baby's attention briefly. The little guy eyed up the strange woman holding him, staring for a second or two before stuffing his own fist in his mouth, acceding to whatever she wished to do with him. As he was held out once more, first to his father and then his mother, she lingered a bit longer by Holly, looking her directly in the eye and murmuring, "I promise, he will be just fine."

Her heart twisted a little at that, and she could only nod once before the older woman backed away.

"Sweetheart, we have to go now," Steve murmured, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and physically turning her towards the truck. The door of the house clicked shut behind them, and it compelled her to move away.

"I know, I know," she returned, self-awareness all too apparent in that moment. She glanced back for a second, and couldn't stop herself from biting her lip briefly. "It's just...I worry."

After helping her into the passenger seat, Steve made quick work of getting back around, not wishing to prolong the beginnings of the separation. He could understand the feelings of hurt; he'd felt them too when he had to go back to work, leaving his wife and son alone all those weeks ago. Still, he kept his demeanor placid, even if he did not feel it.

"It'll be fine. She's got all of our numbers, her background check cleared, and she consented to have JJ installed for extra security purposes," he reminded her, his tone even as he started the engine. The commander of the Avengers was unlikely to just let anyone take care of his son, and so he had done checks of his own. At least she had been accommodating to his requests, when he had finished conducting his research. Well, joint research. "Hell, even with Tony's digging, she came up clean. Jan will take care of him."

Holly scrubbed a palm over her forehead, lingering on the scar above her eyebrow for a few seconds. At once he reached out, taking her hand and lowering it. Slotting their fingers together, he gave them an encouraging squeeze. She flicked her gaze past him to the house again, and sighed deeply.

"I know all that. I know he'll be alright here. I just...ugh, I wish I could be as calm about this as you are," she groaned, leaning back in her seat and closing her eyes. A tremor of laughter rose up from him, and she gave him a halfhearted glare as he buckled up.

"Practice, Princess," Steve indicated, turning his head slightly. "Years of practice."

"And being good at faking it, right?" she inquired, catching his own furtive glances towards the little house they were still parked in front of. That time, his chuckles were self-deprecating, and he shifted the gears with alacrity then.

"That, too," he confirmed, taking up her hand again as the truck was turned and they started heading back they way they'd come. She let a tiny grin grace her lips, breaking through her nerves. Thinking back on his previous pronouncement, she also let out a snort and grumble of her own.

"Nerfherder."

A small, proud smile cropped up on his lips as they turned out onto the main road. He lifted their still-joined hands to his lips, kissing her fingertips.

"There ya go."

The remainder of the ride to the base was had in silence, with Holly's wan grin dissolving as the road rolled beneath them. Turning up the track, she felt the twist in her stomach and the slight increase of the patter of her heart. It had been well over a month since she'd been to work, been in an environment that did not consist of diapers and bottles. It was odd, yet the familiarity upon parking the vast underground parking garage and taking the elevator to the correct floor, and then passing through the security points, impressed itself upon her mind. Steve left her at the door to the archives department, kissing her quickly and promising to see her at the end of the day (fairly hightailing it out of there, before the higher-ups saw him and got it in their heads to drag him into whatever pre-1950's documentation they were undergoing at the moment). The sense of leaving something behind, missing out on something rose on and off, but she pushed it down as she entered the department, brief hellos passed between her and the receptionist in between her transferring calls. Thus far, she avoided her coworkers; perhaps she'd make it straight to her office and have a moment to sit, absorb it all before her return meeting with Melanie...

"Holly, welcome back!" a voice called out behind her, the only warning before she turned and was suddenly swept off her feet in a hug. Though she did not think she had many people she could call friends in her department, the gangly, bespectacled giant was one of those who came the closest. (He topped out at six-foot-five, making even Steve look up to meet his eye). Granted, they had kept in touch over emails since they often worked on similar projects as junior archivists, but it made the nerves in her stomach slink away as he embraced her. She hugged him back, slightly bewildered by the warmth, but allowed herself to smile when he finally set her on her feet again.

"Thanks, Todd," she said, smoothing down the skirt of her dress to sit right (chosen as it hid the excess weight that was dropping ever-so-slowly). Risking a look down the hall behind her, she asked in a hushed tone, "So how much are they gonna dump on me, now that I'm back?"

"At least a mountain's worth," he speculated facetiously, smirking as he inclined his eyebrows. "How dare you have a child and leave the department to care for him?"

Holly rolled her eyes and sighed. "Of course."

Lifting a shoulder, Todd raked a hand through his messy curls, jerking a thumb back in the direction he'd come. "And, um, actually, I've got a few files to sort through, need another perspective. Want to give me a hand after reporting in?"

Taking a swift look at the clock at the end of the hall, she dipped her chin. There would be time, and she had to fill up the hours somehow.

"Sure, I can do that."

True to her word, after clocking in and meeting with the manager to briefly discuss what projects would be under her care for the time being, she adjourned from her office to the storage units. Todd's reports, it turned out, had some photographs and small pieces of memorabilia attached to them, and he needed help with the retrieval. In between finding what was needed and cross-referencing with the files he had, they brought each other up to date on their separate lives. After being shown and tutting in appreciation of the latest pictures of her son on her phone, he confided in her about the lack of diversity in the dating pool, still, and his resolve to get a dog for companionship. Which he'd followed through on the previous week—he himself was now a father, to a three-year-old Blue Heeler named Buford, and he furnished his own pictures. It all set the tone for the rest of her morning, as she returned to her office and found the first files she would be delving into. Those were reserved until after lunch, which was had when Kay Szymik found her way down from testing. The blue-haired agent was also pleased by her return, the two women trading gossip and news as they ate. Life had proceeded much as it ever had, and she was merely rejoining the flow, despite the nagging sensation of it all being at odds with something else. That something else chipped away inside of her after Kay's departure, when she started scanning the documents in the first file folder. The weight on her shoulders and in her chest were persistent, but she did her best to ignore them.

A tap came at the glass inset of her door, and she took a steadying breath before looking up. A light grin pulled at her lips as her supervisor, Melanie, entered the room. Resplendent in a lime green day dress and bandana in her hair, the older woman exchanged pleasantries with her for a minute or two, her gaze raking over the returned employee with interest.

"You doing okay?" she asked as Holly ducked down, tucking her things under her desk (moving her pump out of sight, as she'd taken a bit of her break to take care of that). The grin doubled in brightness, and Holly canted her head.

"Yeah, I'm great!"

The supervisor's eyes did not waver from hers for an instant. Instead, deep understanding blossomed in the irises as she crossed the room and took a seat in the visitor's chair across from the young woman.

"The first day away is tough," she said plainly, the typical excited nature of her tenor subdued as she made her point. "Part of you is really glad to get back to the 'normal' area of your life, but...you also feel like you're missing out on something even better. Despite the craziness."

It hit the nail so squarely that Holly could feel her head ringing. At once, the facade she'd been sporting since that morning fell away, and she lowered her gaze to the edge of her desk.

"...Yes," she admitted lamely, inwardly conceding the foolishness of her denial. Melanie had children of her own, and even though her sons were grown, she had not forgotten what it was like to first embark on the road, to make her previous life meet her new one and force them to coalesce. Reaching out, the older woman patted her hand genially, a true smile of support on her lips and a minute lift coming to her shoulder.

"You'll be fine. You already are," she professed, eyeing up the younger woman and canting her head decidedly. She had faith that she would get back into the groove of things, would make the new course of her life run as she saw fit. With a final pat, she let go of Holly's hand, straightening in her seat and gesturing towards the stack at her elbow. "Now, have you made any headway with those reports?"

The brittle brightness of her demeanor drained away, allowing the flash of minor contentment override the residual concern.

"Some." Holding up a piece of paper, on which the components for a specially-made air rifle were listed, the brunette cleared her throat and inquired, "Would this classify as evidence or weaponry, do you think?"

Melanie grinned at that, and leaned over to look at the proffered sheet.

The afternoon rolled on, with five o'clock coming around before Holly knew it. All in all, her first day back had been about what she'd expected. A few new projects were on the docket for the next few weeks, and she could anticipate helping Todd sort out a few reports from last March (finally, they were beginning to crack into the last twenty years as far as data was concerned) in between all that. Sorting her files into her to-do and finished trays, she shut down her computer spiritedly. Gathering up her things, she hoofed it to the elevator bank, checking her messages to make sure that Steve was still in his office, waiting for her. Going through another set of security clearances, she soon enough was winding her way through the halls, past the empty rooms belonging to the others as she went.

The team, it seemed, were separated at the moment: Sam, Wanda, and Natasha out on mission, while Bucky, the Vision, and Scott were off for the evening. Coming up to the correct office door, she paused before knocking, peering through the glass at her husband. Steve had his elbows up on his desk, his smartphone in hand and his eyes staring intently at the screen. Finding that to be somewhat suspicious, she edged her way into the room, opening the door with minimal fuss. Dropping her things by the door, she made it partway through the room before he glanced up, his spiking eyebrow telling her that she wasn't as sneaky as she thought herself to be. Pointedly, she shifted her gaze to the device in his hands, matching his knowing look with one of her own.

"Whatcha lookin' at?" she asked as she rounded the desk. At once, he dropped his phone down, thumbing the side button so the screen went black. Pushing it away slightly, he shrugged at her, brushing it off.

"Oh, uh, nothing," he muttered, keeping his grin light and airy even as the tips of his ears burned pink.

"Uh-huh," she retorted, stepping into the V of his legs when he swiveled the chair to face her. "Because you're in the habit of staring at your phone for extended periods of time."

His teasing smile grew a little stronger then, and he attempted to chuck her under the chin. "You finally caught on, huh?"

Tilting her head to the side, she leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his lips and seemingly letting it go. Waiting until he'd relaxed into her touch, until his hands reached up and cupped her face, her own shot out nimbly. She snatched up the abandoned device, retreating from him and the kiss in a single motion. Left stunned, he could only gape as she brought the screen back to life, her furrowed brow smoothing and a scoff shooting out of her mouth.

"I knew it," she exclaimed, turning the screen back to him to show him that he was caught red-handed. The interior of Jan's house was on the screen, the play-space for the children in the camera's view (the only one in the house, as had been promised to the older woman when it was installed). Off to the side, a few of the children still left to be picked up were playing quietly, their caretaker standing nearby. In her arms was a baby, all wrapped up in a onesie sporting yellow chicks. Their son was just fine, the physical evidence right there before them. Tilting her head, the silent question sat between them, and Steve blew out a breath.

"I was just...checking the security systems, that's all."

"Right. How many times?" she demanded, resting her backside against his desk and crossing her arms. His face went blank, but she merely stared down at him. The impasse lasted for several long moments, until her husband looked heavenward and deflated somewhat.

"...Once beforehand. Around lunch," he told her, bracing for the flak he was about to catch for his over-protectiveness. "Nothing came up then, or now, so it can be assumed they're safe."

A perverse delight lit up her irises as she looked down at him. There was proof that she was not the only worrier in the family, and she felt weirdly vindicated by his check-ups. Cheekily, she tossed the device back at him, flapping a hand towards the door and standing up straight.

"Why don't we go find out, seeing as how I'm clocked out and ready to get outta here?"

In response, Steve smiled impishly, rising from his chair after putting his computer through its shutdown. All their personal items were gathered, and the trip down the garage went smoothly. Tucking bags and climbing up into their respective seats, the engine rumbled as it was fired up, the desire to go home amping up inside of her when the vehicle drove away from the claimed spot.

"How was your day?" Steve asked as they pulled out of the garage, the dirt under the tires spitting up as they went down the frontage road. Care lit up his features,wonderment at how she had handled her first day away from their son following behind. The little smile on Holly's lips became more pensive, and she stared out the window for a minute or two, considering her answer.

"Fine," she told him soon enough, feeling it as the ultimate truth in her heart. It had been fine, all around. And while she did not think the feeling that she was missing out would go away anytime soon, she could appreciate what she had done, and what she was going to do from that point on. Nodding once, she reached over and patted his thigh, the reassurance comforting them both. "I think tomorrow will be fine, too."

She maintained that hope as they picked up their son, just as safe and sound as he had been that morning. Tomorrow would be fine, she decided, cuddling her baby close and pecking him before bundling him in for the ride home, and the day after that would be, too. So long as she tried, and kept trying.

 **xXxXxXx**

The week had started off shaky, but as the days progressed from one to the next, the meshing of home and work lives within the Rogers household started to ease. For that, Steve was relieved; he knew his wife all too well, knew that she would make it work, come hell or high water, and after the tremors of the first day, she was getting the hang of it. Both of them were, of course. His check-ups tapered off, and while he knew better than to fully trust in Jan just yet, he did see that Grant was in capable hands. The rhythm of their lives was beginning to take shape, and he was pleased for it.

On Thursday, he would be glad for that much, considering that work itself was about to become tenser on his end.

A general conference was called between teams and directors, all active members not on duty expected to participate. It happened at least every month, so that the primary and secondary teams could all get on the same page, as well as the SHIELD reps in charge of their support systems. For the first time in a long while, all members were present, with the exception of T'Challa—his duties as a king circumvented his Avenger ones, particularly as he was in the middle of organizing some formal to-do among the leaders of his government. Even Tony had managed to get patched in, the billionaire more eager than ever to start reaffirming his place, despite being part-time.

Across the pond, Joe Chapman had corralled his mates, Duquesne and Pietro Maximoff nearly frog-marching the youngest of their team into the room to do so. Finesse, regrettably, lacked that quality personally, and was grumbling as she sank into her chair. A swat on the arm from the Latina to her left made her growl, but Emily fixed her with a steely stare, shutting her up immediately. Wanda herself edged close to the display with her brother on it, the two exchanging words as a redheaded woman approached, her bulldog companion invited even to that event. Sam sat at the end of the table, texting and smirking at his phone, with Natasha attempting to look over his shoulder obviously. She laughed when he scowled and blocked the screen with his hand, Barnes rolling his eyes and guiding her to sit back down beside him. All in all, it was a fairly typical start to the meeting.

However, it would not remain that way once everyone had heeded the command to sit and get things underway. After giving some updates on field reports done by the top-level agents at the base, Maria invited Chapman to explain what his team had been after. With Zemo's arrest and new detainment at the Raft facility, there were some concerns about the possibility that someone was going to be grasping at the reins of his organization. A good majority of the stragglers had been flushed out, by both teams, but as had been proven time and again, the enemy would not oblige them by staying gone. Rumors about Klaue were surfacing, specifically his second-in-command make more and more waves in the black market. Finesse, at that point, piped up and said she was keeping an eye on it, on any bare tidbits that happened to come in. ("When you let me stay at the computer, of course," she'd groused, undeterred in the least by both her penultimate and ultimate boss' unimpressed expressions.) As well as that, the arms dealer with the metal claw for a hand was being watched carefully, in case he was doing anything to give his old second the chance to step up, or better yet, step out to help him. Despite his still being in prison, of course.

Bucky, barely looking at the packet in his hand, gave a swift summation of the primary team's efforts. Strange blips in New York and southern Asia were churning up the waters, and while investigation hadn't yielded much, he and the others felt it all needed to be watched. Something beyond what they could see was happening; he couldn't shake the sense of it. While that was met with obvious scorn, he did indicate that there were gang-related activities springing up in those areas as well, something they needed to shut down with alacrity. That, they could get behind doing.

"How are things looking on your end?" Rogers prompted Fury when Barnes had finished, catching the man's eye on his high definition display. The older man sat forward in his chair, further blocking the wide window of his office on the helicarrier and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Good, for the most part. Got a couple teams following some splinter cell leads; Coulson's heading that."

A ring of nods dipped then. That had been Coulson's mission on and off for the last several months, so it was unsurprising that he would be pursuing more of the same.

"Any other new business that needs addressing?" the commander inquired, closing his copy of the packet that Hill had printed off for them all. At that, her spine stiffened, causing the others to pay close attention to her when she spoke again.

"Word's gotten around by now about the new sheriff in town. Or rather, new captain," she announced, all eyes in the room shifting from her to the captain in question. Bucky, to his credit, barely squirmed in his seat, though his metal fist did curl in a little tighter than typical. Steve glanced back at Maria expectantly, knowing she would have more to say than simply that. And, true to his supposition, she did. "People have started to notice it's not you in the field anymore, Steve, and it can't be dodged any longer."

"The U.N. chose not to submit a statement?" Natasha cut in, a perfectly-shaped eyebrow inclining. Clearly, she had thought something of the like would occur well before then. Hill swiftly rectified the negative conjecture.

"Hawley did, and while the change of hands has been met with some skepticism, it is something they are slowly accepting. However, it has not been given out to the general public. They are looking to us to do so, or more specifically, one of us."

Once again, focus was turned onto Bucky, and that time, he did shuffle uncomfortably in his seat.

"I thought you guys had people who dealt with this stuff," he countered, his hand disappearing below the table's edge. Given the way Natasha shifted ever-so-slightly closer to him, it was easy to tell he'd reached for her for comfort. Maria let the gesture go unremarked upon, and shrugged.

"We do, but it would go a lot further with the world if it came directly from the source," she indicated. Publicists they had aplenty, but well-timed phrases would not be to their benefit. Not in regards to Bucky and his reappearance on the world stage, at least. Swallowing hard, Barnes sat up a little straighter, steeling himself and drawing on his well of courage.

"What do I have to do?" he asked, ready to get down to business, if it was required of him.

"It all depends, really."

A dark eyebrow spiked. "On what?"

"On _who_ , Bionicle," Tony interrupted sharply, drawing all attention onto himself. Spotting Maria's glare of disapproval, he apologized facetiously, "Sorry, I took that as my cue."

"Stark," Steve exhaled, the truth of the situation crashing down upon him in that instant. With his extended experiences in the public eye, Tony was the best equipped to provide the solution. A solution that would, inevitably, open up painful wounds, for him in particular. Good form would dictate his permission, his acceptance, as being necessary for the go-ahead, and a deep slide of fear began to course through him. He owed them nothing, after all; Bucky had killed his parents, and Steve had had suspicions that it was the case. Granted, if they had waited longer to tell him the truth, it would have gone worse for the lot of them, but it still was a sour, unpleasant time of their recent past. As the child of victims, it would be natural that he would wish the perpetrator to suffer.

This would be his chance to truly break them, if he wanted to do so. And as his bright gaze connected with the fellow's darker one, he knew full well that he was aware of it, too.

However, his response would be more of a shock than anything else.

"Yeah, me," he said, sounding for all the world like he was about to let a bomb drop. Bracing himself, Steve was taken aback when he rubbed his hands together quickly, leaning forward and letting his eyes bore a veritable hole through the new captain. Coughing once, he continued in a lower tone, "The U.N. is expecting a direct approach for this, and that's exactly what you're going to give them, Barnes."

The general outline of the plan was laid bare in the moments that followed. As said, the public statement from the new captain would need to be made. However, feeding the public some canned lines would not do, not when a good portion of them would recognize Bucky for who he was in the past. As well as that, though the United Nations had gone the extra mile to assert his position and stabilize him in that position, that wouldn't mean that there wouldn't be someone out there who wouldn't try to reverse that. The precarious and dangerous nature of the past could swamp him, take him down just as he started to rise up. And that, in the end, was not something any of them needed. Not when key dissenters were looking for any excuse to push their faces in the mud (a certain ex-general came to mind, but his name was not mentioned in that time). Between them, the secondary team, and the SHIELD intel that came in daily, they would have to work to get everything locked down. It would be impossible to scrub his record totally clean, but they could minimize the damage, control what could and couldn't be washed away. It would take a couple of days, flushing out the digital records and dumping the physical ones, but it was what needed to be done.

For a long moment, everyone sat in utter silence. What Tony was proposing...was definitely not something they expected him to get behind. Gazes ricocheted around the room, the others absorbing all that he'd said, save for two blue pairs latching onto him. When more seconds ticked by, and nobody said a word, Barnes drew in a sharp breath.

"If you say so," he murmured, tacit agreement to the proposal given as he inclined his head. Stone-faced as the tech genius had become, he did return the nod, and suddenly the commander could not let it all just sit and stew.

"Could we have a minute?" Rogers asked the others, folding his hands atop the conference table and meeting the others' eyes before looking at Stark again. Spying the determination there, Hill nodded, ushering the others out of the room one by one. Chapman and Fury disengaged their cameras, each claiming they would begin efforts on their ends before signing off. Soon enough, it was just him and the billionaire staring one another down, the tension thick in the air.

"What's up, Old Age? Worried about Treachery stickin' the landing on this?" Stark quipped, the humor in his voice not even touching his eyes. Brushing off the slight, the commander leaned forward in his chair.

"Yes, but also about you, too," Steve confessed baldly, crossing his arms as the brittle grin on Tony's face faded. The enforced joviality melted in the presence of the harsh realism, which he did not think could be ignored.

The effort to which Stark was willing to go on all of it, that he was willing to even be part of it period, was truly humbling. That he thought it necessary to assert Barnes' place, that he was willing go through the effort of data-mining and erasing all traces of the Winter Soldier on their behalf...it beggared belief. Swallowing hard (and trying his damnedest to ignore the wrench in his gut), Steve looked at him for a long moment.

"Tony...are you sure?" he asked, the question hanging in the air between them. Though they were on the way to healing, though Tony had started to express measures of friendship towards him again, he did not wish him to go against what he truly wanted. Understanding his allusions, the older man focused on a point off-camera for several minutes. The question he'd been asked had circled in his mind as well, before Steve had said anything.

For days, he questioned the sense of his actions, when Fury first brought up the idea well before the meeting. The heartbreak and rage of the previous December had flowed up and spiked, but it had not lingered as it once did when thought of it. A thought had anchored him through the entire planning process, allowed him to embark on the new path without wishing to cave in on himself. And that was what he was going to tell Rogers, to make him understand why he did what he did.

"It's enough that the world will know what he's capable of. The extent...it won't serve any purpose to tear open old wounds. There's more important things at stake these days. It's enough that I know, and that he knows. It's done, either way." He shrugged his shoulders as Steve shot him an incredulous look. It was true, though, at its core, all of it. Was he still upset about it all? Of course he was. Did he wish that Barnes could have endured the same suffering his parents endured? There was a time that the answer was a hard yes, but now, it was nothing more than a lingering fantasy, one that he could not see being fulfilled. His time for judgment had passed; the world would know soon enough, and it would be up to them to decide where to go from there. Tipping his head, Tony continued, "And yeah, I could fight it until the cows come home, but in the end, what would it matter? It won't change the past. And as for the present, I'd lose just as much as he would, and honestly, I don't really dig that outcome."

Silence hovered between them, each mired in their private musings, until Steve ventured another thought.

"People might make the connections, anyway," he stated plainly, eyebrow barely arching. Even with all the work they'd be doing on behalf of their requests, it did not mean that the world would remain ignorant. Likely there would be a link, a rumor, anything to tie the new Captain America back to his dubious past. Things that could invariably destroy him, once and for all. However, to that, Tony merely canted his head.

"On some things, maybe," he conceded. He could not stop speculation, could not stop others from pursuing the path that had been laid bare. Still, that did not mean they would find everything. In fact, he would wager that it would be nearly impossible to do so. Rumors and lies were so blended with the truth now that there would be no way of knowing everything. And what could be known, would not be available. Not on his watch. "On others...no, they won't."

Another long silence permeated the air between them, and slowly, carefully, the commander inclined his head, taking the billionaire's word.

"We better get started, then," he intoned mildly, palms flat on the table before him. Stark leaned back in his chair, cutting a glance to the left where he knew the door out of the room was on their end.

"Better call back Frosty. This is going to take awhile," he remarked, the shadow of his smirk fading even as Steve did as he asked. The time for jokes and play was over; it was time to crack on.

 **xXxXxXx**

Mumbling to herself over the file opened before her on her desk, it took Holly awhile to notice the presence waiting on the other side of her door. When she did, she veritably jumped in her seat, shocked at the looming man waiting there. Getting up from her desk, her brow was automatically screwing up in confusion as she went to open the portal.

After all, visits from Bucky Barnes to her office had never happened before. It certainly was disconcerting, to say the least. For his part, he nodded to her, pushing the flop of his part out of his eyes.

"Holly," he said, an attempted measure of friendliness coming to his voice, though the warmth did not reach his eyes. Something was the matter, but she hadn't a clue of what it could be.

"James," she returned the greeting, staring at him curiously. Sighing, his eyes flicked from her to the interior of her office, the silent question being asked dawning on her after a few moments. Dipping her chin, she stood back and allowed him inside the small office. As he passed, she risked a glance around the hall, a few of her coworkers lingering outside their doors. The new Captain America had not ever come down to archives even before his tenure, and to see him suddenly appear at the wife of the previous title holder's had a few eyebrows spiking. Shrugging a shoulder, she frowned before going back into the private space, latching the door firmly behind her. Circling back to her side of the desk, she caught him staring down at the file she was attending to, a flicker of interest in his irises. Taking note of that, she worked quickly to compile it all together, dropping it in one of her trays before focusing on him again. "What brings you down here?"

For a long moment, he just sat there, staring down at his hands. His fingers were interlaced in his lap, metal and flesh weaving in and out of one another. Though she did not know him as long Steve had, she had gotten to know him well enough when he was living with them. He was gathering himself, gathering his thoughts, before bringing up something that could potentially be unpleasant. Folding her own arms, she leaned forward and rested them on her desk, waiting as patiently as she could. Her lunch had passed, and she wasn't sure the visit would be sanctioned for very long. Eventually, after some leg-bouncing and subtle glances at the open forms on her computer screen, he got his bearings.

"I...need some help," he breathed finally, meeting her eye-line. As her eyebrows inclined, he cleared his throat, relaying a summary of the events of the morning. Little by little, her brown eyes grew wide as he told her about the world's speculation about him, about taking Steve's place, and how he would, in essence, have to come clean. The fact it was Tony Stark's plan they would be following to do so, with the United Nations' stamp of approval, nearly had her brows disappearing into her hairline, and her jaw slackened slightly. However, the curious light that had lit up her face upon his arrival was returning, the burgeoning questions surfacing in her mind again, and he hastened to address those as well. "Most of the other work is being taken care of, but, well...Steve said you've done this before for him. I've never done something like this before. That I can remember, at least."

The curiosity doubled, and so Bucky spelled out his request. Upon hearing it, she sat back again, digesting all that he had divulged. What he was asking wasn't impossible, but to have it done on a such a grand scale...she didn't know.

"You want me to act as your speech writer," she confirmed aloud, her words accompanied by the incline of his head. Tapping the pads of her fingers against the desk, she wondered, "When will you be giving it?"

He winced a little before replying, "Saturday is the aim."

Closing her eyes, she concealed the roll they went into, her fingers coming up and rubbing at her temples. Two days. He had to give a speech, in two days' time, and he wanted her aid. Not impossible, but it certainly wouldn't be anything Shakespearean, she could say that much. Her brain raced with thoughts, going several miles a minute as she considered his proposal.

"Okay, but there are going to be some stipulations," she started after another minute or two, ticking off the points on her fingers. "I'm not writing the whole thing for you. The caliber of this situation kinda requires it to be addressed by you, in your own voice. Pen out some prelims, and we'll go from there. And, word of warning: be honest, but don't be overly graphic. If I can't read it without being scarred for life, then you sure as hell can't say it."

Unconsciously, his lips quirked, and had the situation not been as dire as all that, he would have smirked.

"Noted," he said, agreeing to her stipulations. Gesturing for a pen and a piece of paper, he took both when she furnished them and jotted down the notes on the blank sheet. His own mind was still processing all that had been discussed, been spoken of. It was one thing to take on the mantle his friend had relinquished; it was something else entirely to defend his candidacy for it. Particularly when he, deep down, still did not think he deserved it on his poorer days. But he had given his consent to play the part that Stark would require of him, that Steve would require of him. He had to make his reveal, and his appeal, and do so well enough that the faith placed in him by the United Nations and his colleagues would not be squandered. Reading his compilation upside-down, Holly swooped in with a pen of her own, adding a note here and there as he went.

"I really should get paid for this stuff," she mumbled under her breath after several moments passed in that fashion. Bucky scoffed aloud, a final scribble traipsing across the paper before he leaned back.

"You won't be the first person I owe for this."

Her pen froze, and she looked up at him, dark gaze unfathomable.

"How much are they making you pay?"

"It really depends." That was the truth; it all rested upon the reception of his speech, of his admittance to the past. If the world sought retribution, it would have to be paid in full. If there were varying degrees to it, he would meet those and give back what he could in repentance. After Saturday, he would know for sure. His bright eyes focused on the hands in his lap again, and the scratch of the other pen picked up soon after that.

"Consider my fees waived this time," she said, flicking her fingers as if to flap the non-existent things away. Finishing her last note, she continued, "Mock something up, and bring it over to the house tonight. We can take a look after dinner. You and Natasha both."

Bucky stared at her for a few seconds, feeling something in his chest loosen as the invitation registered. Before he'd arrived at her office, off his friend's persistent prompting, he wasn't sure how she would react to news of that caliber. Since his return from his imposed exile, he had seemed to bring nothing but additional headaches and strife into the Rogers' lives. Still, despite all that, he was welcomed and accepted, over and over again. With Steve, it had become something of a near-fault to do so, but for Holly...he knew it marked something more than mere acceptance at another's behest when she held out her hand to him as well.

Rising from his chair, he pocketed the sheet of paper, impulsively taking one of Holly's hands between both of his. He did not know how he could adequately express himself, other than with a tight squeeze and the guilelessness in his irises. One day, he would pay her back for her acceptance. He would start by doing as she asked.

"Thank you," he said, squeezing her hand once more before leaving. Dropping her hand down to the desk, Holly blew out a sigh before picking up her phone and dialing through for transfer. She had to inform her husband of their enlarged dinner party...and get his side of events before they all got down to work that evening.

 **xXxXxXx**

Saturday came, and with it came a flurry of arrivals and activity. As agreed upon with Hawley and some other representatives of the United Nations, a block of time would be given for the new Captain America to make his first address to the public, to show himself to the world. The morning was spent in preparations, from nearly every angle, bleeding into the afternoon and early evening as well. The air around the base crackled and popped, the tenseness that hovering at the edge of something unknown coming down upon them all. While there was not much she could do during the day, Natasha Romanoff waited for the hour of truth to arrive, going at the behest of her commander to summon up the captain in question. She knocked against the glass door at the end of the hall, opening it before permission for entry had been granted. It was more of a courtesy than anything else; after all, she was already able to come and go freely from Bucky's quarters, and his office would be no different. Stepping into the space, she raked her gaze over the framed prints on the walls, the simple furniture that was adequate enough to serve its purpose. Really, there were very few personal touches, the effects of living with almost nothing to define his life having not totally worn off. Still, upon the few frames that littered the desk space by the computer set-up, the portrait of Bucky and Steve in their Howling Commando days (a fantastic Internet find, if she did say so herself), to the cheeky photo of her winking at the Rogers' wedding. Her focus, however, centered then on the man behind the desk, his head in hands and a low groan floating out of his mouth.

Definitely a far cry from how he was that morning, she'd noted, though the groaning wasn't too far off-course. Shutting the door behind her, she strode right up to the edge of his desk, crossing her arms and smiling softly at him.

"You ready for this?"

Pulling his face away from his palms, Bucky blew out a sharp breath. His fingers raked through his dark hair, willing it to sit right in its side part. The ends brushed a little past the lobes of his ears, tucked away from them to keep his face clear. His scruff was trimmed, his best shirt employed, and he even went so far as to wear good, dark jeans. Granted, the broadcast would only catch from his stomach up, but he was going the extra mile to make himself look...normal. Non-threatening, not a like a man pulled from the fire and lost in the world. Rolling up the ends of his sleeves, the normalcy of his look was broken by the gleam of his metal arm.

"I'm ready to throw up, is what I'm ready to do," he intoned darkly, his complexion paling even as he admitted that. No doubt he was considering all the outcomes that could come from his address, and all he could picture were the negatives. Sidling up to him, she tenderly carded through his hair, fixing it further. Her touch made him visibly relax, and once she finished with his hair, she let her fingertips graze down over the curve of his jaw.

"Funny how with all the things you've seen and done, this is what makes you nervous," she teased lightly, her thumb stroking his cheek. He snorted at that, opening his eyes and blinking at her.

"Some of us weren't taught how to play to the crowd, sugar," he retorted, fondness breaking through the nerves momentarily. Sure, he could charm a dame or two in his day, but public speaking wasn't exactly his bread and butter. He hated it in school, and even more so when he became part of the world's best task forces. Managing a half-smile for her, it dropped quickly when he faced forward again. Inhaling sharply, he muttered, "I don't think I'll ever get used to this part of the job. For however long I have it after this."

"It takes awhile to get your bearings. And you'll at least have it until tomorrow," she pointed out, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms about him. Resting her chin his shoulder, they stayed still for several moments. Of course, he had every right to fear what was to come; it would be foolish to not consider that, despite their best intentions, it could all go sideways. However, she did not wish him to feel as though he'd be facing such consequences alone. The seriousness of it all lightened somewhat by the impish cast coming to her smirk. "Got a contingency plan in place? Gonna make a run for it if they come looking for you?"

He tilted his head, allowing it to rest against hers briefly.

"Depends," he replied, his voice becoming husky as a finger started to trace along her forearm. "Would you come with me if I did?"

It came to her then, unbidden: the memories of the farmhouse, the wish that she had to disappear from it all, to disappear with the man she care for. At the time, she had thought that the fellow she'd chosen was the best choice, a man of honor and principle. While Bruce still had those traits, he had proven that he did not share her desires, not truly. Their broken pieces did not match, could not be forced into more than what they were. And while she could not deny that Bucky was just as broken, the edges were more interlocked now than she ever could have imagined. Where Bruce would go alone, Bucky refused to do so.

Water rimmed her eyes, though she would vehemently deny it happening after the fact.

"James..." she breathed, tipping her face to bury into the side of his neck. Her grip around him tightened, and after a few seconds of taut stillness, he felt the barest brush of a nod on his skin.

Standing, he turned to face her, cornflower blue eyes latching onto hers and holding her in the moment.

"You'll be here when it's done, right?" he asked softly, wrapping her in his arms and bending to brace his forehead against hers. Another nod came, and she leaned into his arms.

" _Da_ , _Medved',_ " was her whisper, and he pulled her all the way in, cheek resting against her fiery hair and steadying breaths taken in the quiet.

The embrace ended all too quickly, with one of the tech guys responsible for the set-up interrupting it. Red-faced and awkward, the fellow announced quietly that all was ready, and that Bucky could go in when he wanted to get things going. Pulling himself to his full height, Barnes relinquished his hold on Romanoff, striding after the kid who had come to collect him, the ring of his boots echoing in the halls as they went. (He missed the death glare the Black Widow had given the poor guy, all but threatening him with terrible consequences if he breathed a word about her tender moment with the new captain to anybody.) Rounding several corners, he eventually was directed to a large conference room. A flash of memory recalled heavy microphones, glinting silver, stations embossed on placards before them, though in his mind, it was Steve settled before them, giving a rousing turn of phrase during a spare moment between missions. He never really liked the idea of parading himself like that. Now it seemed that he had no choice. Not if he wanted to continue living.

However, unlike the past, the microphones in the room were nearly invisible, a small one clipped to his shirt and secured to a battery pack in his pocket (for security purposes, in case the ones attached to the cameras failed). The long table seemed to stretch before him as he sat, the single chair wooden and uncomfortable. The cameras were, tiny on their thin tripods, were hooked up to various laptops. The broadcast was to be directed to several local affiliates, and forwarded through the United Nations website. All of this was set up in record time, clearance and passes issued with a little determination and elbow grease (and, likely, large amounts of money trading hands). One of the other tech people fluttering around set a glass of water on the table beside him, along with the reminder that Hawley was near the end of her introductory speech, and it would only be a few more minutes until his cue came. A spike of fear tore through him, then, and his metal hand fairly trembled as he raked it back through his hair. The cards bearing his speech came to his grip, but he could not focus upon them. Instead, he glanced up, almost shocked to see the team waiting there. Scott hooked a thumbs-up at him, Wilson dipping his chin in commiseration. Wanda, from her station to the far left, gave him a tight smile, her green eyes flushing scarlet as an aura projected from her hand at the glass. As it was significantly dulled by the physical materials it had to float through, it was enough to touch the storm in his mind, his soul, and calm it slightly. The Vision laid a palm on her shoulder, the seriousness of his expression unwavering. And at the center of the group were Steve and Natasha, each one giving him silent encouragement in their own ways.

Suddenly, the techies planted themselves beside laptops, with one doing a physical countdown on their fingers. As he reached 'one,' he pointed at Bucky, and he took the signal for what it was. Shifting his gaze to the cameras around him, he swallowed hard, flicking a glance at the cards and starting.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes, sergeant of the 107th Infantry Regiment and member of the Howling Commandos. Many of you know my name, my rank, and probably even my old address in Brooklyn. Even how I had...died. But there are many things that you don't know, and that's what I'm here to tell you. After falling from a train bearing enemy agents in 1945, I was captured by hired soldiers and mercenaries, and held prisoner." Here he paused, the cards in his hands shifting as his fingers twitched. The knot in his throat was threatening to reform, the repressed fear and horror of those days—of those days that he could remember clearly—making it difficult to continue. Still, he coughed once, grabbing up the glass of water set nearby and down almost half of it in one go before he felt that he could speak again. Setting the glass aside, he glanced down at his cards, another shaky breath taken, and then he went on. "When the war ended, I was transferred into what was later called the Soviet Union, wherein I endured years of torture and manipulation, both physical and psychological, until I no longer even knew my own name, let alone my true nature. It was...a hell that I would not have wished on my worst enemy. In short, I had been turned into the very evil I had fought against for so long, and used to perpetuate that evil through more manipulation and lies. And with what I have since learned is called cryogenics, I was frozen on and off for seventy years, fighting for a cause that I had forgotten that I was, and still am, against.

"I've done terrible things. I've killed people: people who were important, some who did not seem so but were...whoever was a threat to the cause, I was forced to eliminate, without any idea who they were, to the world or to myself. I may not remember names, but I can see their faces, even now. All of which I regret. I was known by many titles and names, but not my true one. That was returned to me by a good friend, who had the luck of discovering the truth and who had fought for my freedom, along with yours."

Blue eyes darted up, focusing on the frame of the fellow on the other side of the glass wall of the room, beyond the camera set-up. Steve, standing at Natasha's right, had crossed his arms, his head tipping down almost bashfully at that pronouncement. Still, it was true; if it weren't for Steve, and his efforts to reach him while in the darkest of places, he would still be lost, still be trapped. It needed to be said, and so he would. (It was the one portion of the speech that Holly didn't touch. He wondered how much that had to do with her own personal pride in regards to her husband's trials and behavior, rather than his own writing abilities.) Glimpsing his cards again, he took another drink of water, he steeled himself for the final portion of his speech.

"However, in my heart, I still carry the responsibility of the blood on my hands, on my conscience, and will until the day I die. I deserve no less, frankly. I have spent nearly two and a half years attempting to atone for the mistakes and heinous deeds of the past, and will continue to do so. Through testimonies provided by captured HYDRA agents and further assessments of my mental state, I have largely been acquitted of my crimes. I have faced the evils of the world, have lived in it, and I now choose to fight against it, to fight for the light. Even if it may cost me my own life to do so. Like so many of you choose to do so, no matter who you are, what you've done, or where you're from. Or when."

Bucky looked directly at the camera then, taking a final deep breath before delivering the last of his sentiments.

"I will serve as your captain, continue with the core principles of the title. For however long you want me to."

On the other side of the glass wall, he looked up in time to see Natasha's wan smile, his lips curving up in thankfulness only when the tech officially announced the cameras being off. His eyes darted then to the blond fellow beside her, his best friend and leader stoic as ever. But in his gaze was a measure of pride, a layer of sadness beneath it. Steve was proud, proud of him for owning up to the past and working to rectify the mistakes made. And he was sorrowful still, would always carry that tote of guilt for allowing it all to happen in the first place. Bucky's brow furrowed slightly, and he gave the smallest shake of his head. There was no reason for his friend to feel any guilt in regards to him or his life. It wasn't his fault; if it were up to Steve, he would never have allowed those HYDRA agents anywhere near him, had he known what would befall him, befall them all.

But, that was neither here nor there. The past was the past, and while it was necessary to enlighten the world as to what had happened, it would not be changed. Dwelling would not do either of them any good. Sighing, he rose from his chair, exiting the room. There was still more to do, and he couldn't dawdle. Others would watch and wait to see how the nation, how the world, reacted to his broadcast, but he could not. Stepping into the hall, he shared a final nod with Steve before looping his arm around Nat's shoulders, his metal fingers curling into her blouse as they pivoted and walked down the hall as one. The others broke off, one by one, vanishing to their separate endeavors, but only one remained rooted to his spot.

Steve, watching them all disappear after a couple of seconds, let out a low sigh. Turning, he went in the opposite direction, leaving behind the broadcast space and descending to the next floor down. Weaving through the halls, he took himself to another private space, one that had been vacant for several months. Typing in the guest codes at the panel at the door, and then going through a rigorous relay of entry requests via the AI, JJ, the heavily-bolted door clicked open and he entered. The wide space was littered with steel tables, equipment and tools adorning them. It was amazing the rate in which the occupant had made himself at home, given that he had been there for only a few short hours, and had been stationed at the computer bank along the west wall for the majority of it. Still, odds and ends of wires and metal pieces anchored digital blueprints to their spots already, at once familiar and not to his eye. Along the far wall sat an embankment of suits, tailored to several different specifications and needs. All had been flown in; they literally flew themselves in, startling the hell out of some poor interns and even some hardened agents in the process before storing themselves in the glass cases set aside for their use.

The Iron Man laboratory and hall was finally being put to good use, after nearly a year of abandonment by the owner of the hall. And speaking of the owner, Steve crossed his way over to Tony Stark, intent on catching up on all that was left to be done that day. Stopping just behind the the fellow in the desk chair, the darker-haired man did not bother to turn around to greet him, though from the way his back stiffened, it was obvious he'd known about the approach. Fingers continued to fly over the keyboard before him for several long moments, reams of code and flashing images cropping up and disappearing as soon as they appeared. In the far corner of the screen, another inset of information flooded by; it was the media reception of Bucky's address, a mixture of responses slipping in and out as he worked. Thus far, things looked as though they would remain on track, but it was early days yet.

"The data wipe is done already. All that's left to be done is to get rid of the physical copies," Tony muttered several seconds later, a final keystroke given, the screen reflecting a green 'complete' sign over it as he pulled away. Tapping a finger at the hidden comm-link in his ear, he let out a low sigh, the weight of the world still pressing down upon him as he swiveled his chair around. Scrubbing a hand over his face and goatee, he reported, "Chapman and Fury have taken care of it on their ends; now, it's our turn."

All part of the plan, as they were both aware of when he proposed it days ago. Still, Steve looked askance at him, at the lengths of his efforts on behalf of those who had broken parts of him long ago. The smirk quirked at his lips, the mild pain flashing in his irises, but his subtle nod was not missed. There was no need to rehash all that had been said before. The job needed to be finished, and they both knew it. Scooting forward in his chair, he stood, taking out his handheld and shutting down the Iron Man hall for the evening. Together, both men exited the facility and the base, Steve leading the way in his truck to his house and Stark's Maserati right behind. Parking in the driveway of the property, Stark took a moment to appreciate the swatch the slate-blue house cut against the sunset-drenched woods, the thickness of the air between the trees so different from the stale city breezes he was used to. The commander darted into the house for a moment, coming out with Barnes in tow. Several notebooks were in the brunet's hands, as well as a thick file folder perched in Steve's. Taking a deep breath, Stark ducked back in and retrieved the files sent on ahead by Fury, the three men proceeding to a far point of the backyard. As he followed them, he looked over his shoulder at the house, catching the backlit shapes of two figures standing at the window, one bearing something much smaller in her arms. They would not follow them out, but merely stand watch. The ground had been cleared of debris prior to their arrival, save for a ring of stones and a pile of broken twigs shunted into the center.

Taking out a lighter, Steve ignited the twigs, wedges of newspapers fed in between the open areas to keep it lit. A stack of logs stood off to the side, added as the flames ignited the kindling. Once a true fire was blazing, the billionaire and the commander turned to look at the ex-assassin, the fellow selecting the first notebook off the top of his pile before dropping the rest at his feet. Little by little, he tore out the pages, balling them up and casting them into the fire. Phrases of recovered memories, of lost souls, sputtered and caught, curling into blackness and ash mere moments after landing. Over a year and a half of his treatment, of his fractured self had been recorded in those notebooks, signifying that not all had been lost when HYDRA had taken control of his mind and life. However, memories though they were, they were also hard evidence, things that could be twisted and used to break him again. Fury had given the three of them the recommendation (an order, really, but it was one that was difficult to refuse) that anything that left a connection between Bucky and the Winter Soldier beyond the vaguest terms had to be eradicated. The SHIELD dump had not had everything, obviously, but there were bits and pieces hidden in the digital files. Those would be worked on, taken care of; it was the notebooks, the physical papers and words that had to be destroyed.

All highly illegal, of course, but with the U.N. choosing to grant immunity and willingly turning a blind eye to it all—after all, despite his horrid past, Barnes was an efficiently trained fellow, one that they were willing to take a risk on for his service to the greater good—it hardly mattered. The gist was enough; the details weren't something anybody wanted. And so, the details had to go.

After the third notebook, Steve took his turn, mute as he reached into the thick folder in his hand. The tie around it came loose, and he stared at the top contents for a few seconds. Carefully, he extracted a single picture, of Barnes in his hat and military garb, handing it off to his friend before dumping the rest of the papers into the flames. It was dutifully tucked into a pocket, and their eyes remained focused on the fire itself. Blocks of Russian were met with German, the English translations running in the margins literally going up in smoke as the seconds past. The last, another photograph of Barnes, fluttered and landed atop it all. The sickly green cast of it, of the face pressed to the frozen glass, made a dreadful slide go through his stomach. Tony's pile came next, Nick Fury's private research having been bestowed to him months ago to use as he saw fit. As such, he only saw fit to watch it all go up in flames.

The fire burned, the cardboard and papers curling and smoking as the words were lost, the grisly truths within turning to ash and rising to the heavens, lost to the world once again. The three men stared down at it, the crackle and pop of flames mixing with the sounds of the woods settling in for the night. The sun sank lower and lower as they stood, one or the other either stirring it or adding more kindling as the minutes slipped by. Once the last notebook was tossed in and burned, Tony exhaled deeply, dipping his chin once as if to punctuate the finality of it all.

The past was the past, and would remain as such. The present, and the future, were more of a concern for him.

"You know, I rather like the idea," he piped up suddenly, drawing Barnes and Rogers out of their separate reveries. Off the commander's furrowed brow and the new captain's question look, he gave them a dry smirk. Nodding first to the brunet, then the blond, he elaborated, "That you basically owe me for the rest of your life. And for you, most of yours."

The two men shared a loaded look at that, with Bucky scrubbing a hand over his face after and Steve shaking his head, the glimmer of a smile playing across his lips.

"Figures," he mumbled, and Stark nodded again.

"Yeah." The fire burned down a little, the rustle of wind in the trees and the dots of the stars breaking through the canopy above were signals to the older man to start heading back. He would spend the night in his quarters at the base, and be on the road back to the city in the morning. Truth be told, he was exhausted, the invisible weights and trials of the day pushing him down further. Taking a step back, he hooked a thumb back in the direction of the house, and said, "Tell the wife I said hi, Rogers. And the kid, too, if he can understand language at this point. Otherwise, a wave will do."

Steve's answering grin came out more like a grimace, but he took it either way.

"I will," he replied, his hands going into his pockets. Flicking a glance back at the house, at the shadows passing in front of the kitchen lights on and off, he sighed. Clearing his throat, he offered, "Baptism's in a few weeks, if you'd like to come."

Stark's jaw quirked, and he lifted a shoulder.

"I'll see what I can do," he responded, not certain he could make any such commitment at that moment. Too much had happened that day, and it would take awhile to process it all. Stepping further away from the fire, he glanced across to the other man, his so-called leader, the ex-assassin. Inclining his head, he could not think of what else to say to him, that he could say. So, instead of pushing the issues that lay between them, he merely bid him farewell for the night. "Barnes."

"Stark," the brunet returned, holding his gaze for several more seconds before the tech genius ambled away through the darkness. The distant click of locks releasing hit his ears, followed by the opening and slamming of a door. As the engine of the car revved, and the grind of tires grew and faded, he glimpsed his friend out the corner of his eye. "You think this did any good?"

Steve, resting a boot atop one of the rocks ringing the fire, expelled a short breath. "I hope so. It's all we can really do, now."

The pop of wood cut through, and the ex-assassin knelt down, picking up the stick that had been used to stir the coals and materials. Trailing it through the mass of ashes, causing them to cascade up with the next plume of smoke, he coughed, pondering his friend's words. Hope was all they had now, hope that he would be allowed to continue, to go on paying for his sins freely and fighting for the right. Hope that the future would remain open to him.

If that was all he had at the moment, while he still breathed free air, then he would take it.

"Right," Bucky murmured, unable to say more. Rogers did not feel compelled to speak, either, and so they remained in silence. The pair of men watched the fire burn for a long while, going inside only when it had flamed out completely and the ashes of the past were extinguished.

* * *

 **A/N:** There, not super-fluffy this week. And also, super-long again. Alas, I think that will be somewhat permanent now. Not that many of you have complained, if at all. ;-)

Holly goes back to work, and Bucky lays (most of) the truth bare to the world. I knew he could not simply just take up Steve's mantle without there being some comment, and more to the point, without some idea of investigation taking place. And Tony, inevitably, would have to be a part of it, too. I just hope it all came off alright to you guys. It's a tough place for all three of them to be, and I hope it sounded okay.

Somewhat on time this week, and hopefully it will be the same for the next one, too. I heard back from my interview: I did not get the job, and I am very disappointed, though writing has helped pick me up a bit. Oh, well. Try, try again. I hope you all are doing well, at least.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, _Star Wars_ , _Frosty the Snowman_ , Bionicle by Lego, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	5. Chapter 5

The weeks following Bucky's aired confessions were tense. All, it seemed, were waiting with bated breath, the balance of the future waiting to be tipped. Though it was impossible to postulate what would happen in the months to come, those days were easier to predict. The public did indeed have questions regarding the new stewardship that had been granted to the man, speculation about the details of his past and whether his absolution should have been given at all—all on the Internet forums of course, with some talk shows and radio personalities weighing in, as well. Many more, though, were in favor of giving Bucky Barnes the chance to redeem himself; after all, if the U.N. had already chosen to gift him with immunity, who were they to question it? Wary eyes were cast upon them, but not in numbers that would overwhelm and swamp them. There was enough, still, to make them pause. Even with the support, inside and outside of the organization, Bucky knew that all eyes were on him now. All eyes watching to see if Steve's trust could be counted upon, or if he would soil the title he had taken up.

The cost remained to be his continued service, but whether it would escalate, they could not know. Not so soon. Not in a mere two weeks' time.

As such, life inevitably carried on, and it had carried the Rogers family to the font for Grant's baptism. Having approached the minister of the small church they attended, Steve and Holly had set the date for the last Saturday in September. Not that they had anything against the rest of the congregation, but they had decided (and the minister had concurred) that they wanted privacy for the affair, and that was best achieved when it happened outside the set day of services. The evening before, Holly's sister Heather had flown in from Iowa, taking some days off of teaching to officially meet her nephew and take on the role as godmother to the little guy. That morning, she was fielding a quick call from her husband, her own little boys asking after their mother and "Baby Cuz's church bath." ("It was the best way I could describe it to an almost four-year-old and three-year-old," she muttered to her sister when Holly shot her an inquisitive look later on. "A church bath. It's close enough, for now.") That was done outside the chapel area, of course, as a courtesy to the others. Not that there were a ton of people there; half the team was out on mission, as Pietro Maximoff had requested they take a look at one of the leads he'd discovered a few days prior. Scott and Natasha were on-call, but both had come early, seated in pews and chatting lightly as they waited for the set-up to be completed. Lang looked exhausted, due to having com back from a mission mere hours beforehand, but he was still making an effort, fixing his skewed tie and fighting off sleep. The redhead had an amused smirk on her face, having gone so far as to tap the end of his nose to stave off a nap attack for him. Kay Szymik, on the arm of Sam Wilson, slid into a pew herself after giving Holly a hug in greeting, tucking back the wisps of her blue hair and grinning widely at the minister when he caught sight of her. When he merely chuckled and shook his head, she whispered that he seemed alright to her, which Holly took as high praise before she went over to the man himself. Making quiet inquiries, she soon enough was off to find Steve, to check in and make sure Grant was ready. Catching sight of them both at the far end of the room, in a small alcove to the side, she strode over, fondness creeping into her expression.

Both her fellas were looking good, Steve in his suit and Grant in the white shirt and miniature trousers selected for the event. Sam, standing to the left, had reached out, tapping the baby on his arm gently.

"How you doing, buddy? Oh, is Daddy's tie yummy?"

Peering closer as she approached, she could see that Grant had indeed seized the end of his father's tie, the dark material swiftly pushed into his mouth. Steve only chuckled at his antics, a thumb and forefinger secured along the tie to make sure he didn't swallow it and choke. Coming to his side, she sighed.

"Granty, no, no, baby," she crowed, reaching out and pulling the wet, sloppy article from her child's mouth. Beside her, Steve lifted a shoulder, not bothered in the least even as she tucked it into its proper place.

"Don't worry about it, doll. He just has good taste," he stated warmly, grinning at his boy while the others groaned at his poor joke. "Don't ya?"

Snorting, Sam canted his head. "At least now you have the excuse to do dad humor, Steve."

Steve smiled softly at that, his bright gaze sliding from the baby in his arms to Holly. "Been waiting for the excuse. For a long time."

Holly couldn't help the rush of adoration that flowed through her, and she gave him a warm smile as she rubbed their son's back.

"The minister is ready now, so we should all probably get over there," she told them, her focus going to Grant. "We're all ready for you, baby boy."

Dipping his chin once, Steve rocked his son a little as he pivoted on his heel. His friend had hastened away as soon as Holly had indicated it was time to start, leaving the couple a few moments to follow on their own.

"C'mon, little man. You gonna behave for Uncle Sam and Auntie Heather? 'Course you are," he answered for the baby, nuzzling at the crown of his head. His birth-darkened hair was beginning to lighten somewhat, as well as his eyes. Though he didn't think Grant would be fully blond like him, he had to wonder if his boy hadn't inherited the Rogers' blue eyes. They'd know better in the coming months. Meanwhile, his wife fell into step beside him, her palm sliding up and down his back as they walked between the pews towards the front of the church.

"Just for that, if he starts crying, you get to handle it," Holly told him, snickering silently at the flash of worry shooting over her husband's face. "You jinxed it."

Miming the zipping of his lip, Steve shook his head. "Didn't say anything at all."

Despite the teasing, the baptismal ceremony went off relatively well. Heather, a natural choice for godmother given her familial relationship with Holly, held Grant for much of the time at the font. Sam, sober-looking in his suit and seriousness invading his posture, behaved as he was taught; the son of a preacher could do no less for those sorts of things, he'd reasoned, a little sadness creeping in his voice even as he grinned. The minister presided over all with a big grin, the older man happily tripping through the prayers and sprinkling the baby with the blessed water, holding back a chuckle when Grant gave a magnificent sneeze following it. Blessing him, and entreating Sam and Heather to do their duties to the young child before them, he led them through the remaining prayers, voices swirling in the open space. Watching as it all happened, Steve still felt a slight twinge of guilt deep down. In spite of the fact that Bucky had willingly relinquished any right to the title after Wilson had been asked, he still felt conflicted about it. Not about Sam's worthiness, but because at one time, Bucky would have been the one standing there. For his part, his oldest friend had taken the choice in stride. Truth be told, from what he could remember about the role he would be asked to play in Grant's life had he been asked, Barnes didn't know if he could fulfill the obligations, not in the way that he felt was required. For that moment, of course; the future was another thing altogether. Still, he bore no ill will to the other guy being the baby's godfather. Uncle Bucky was good enough for him, at that time.

With the final prayers spoken, the minister ended the ceremony, blessing them all and inviting them to stay in the church for a little longer, if they liked. After some pictures had been taken (there would no avoidance, what with Holly wanting them for posterity and Kay brandishing her personal camera for just the occasion), they all agreed it was time to head out. Back to the house they all went, wherein the attendees availed themselves of the treats put together. Lunch itself was simple, with a cake commissioned for the little guy's big day indulged in afterward. Natasha, after taking a few moments to cuddle with Grant, had to depart, needing to get back to her data logs and resume her on-call status for the afternoon. Scott, soon after getting his cake, was sprawled in the armchair, head tipped back and his legs stretched out before him. His recent mission with the Vision had really done a number on him, and he couldn't help but be lulled to sleep. He could not be roused, not even when it was time to open the baptismal gifts. The minister and his wife had come as well, though they too could not stay long; preparations for Sunday services needed to be finished, and they couldn't put them off any longer. They left with some cake wrapped up for them, handshakes and hugs exchanged before departing. After that, the remaining five took it upon themselves to complete the task, with the baby nestled into his mother's arms (long since changed into tiny pants and a shirt) as Holly sat beside Steve. The last portion of the couch went to Sam, Kay perching on the arm beside him, her balance maintained by her arm curling about his shoulders. Heather brought in a chair from the table in the kitchen, notebook in hand and recording who had sent what on. Gifts from the grandparents, Uncle Hank, and the extended Avengers family were piling up around them, each one accorded a moment of respect. At the bottom of the little pile was one that was wrapped in parcel paper, the sender unable to attend but wishing to touch upon the day somewhat. Steve had saved it for last, shifting it carefully into his lap to unwrap.

"I'm almost afraid to see what Tony Stark deems as an appropriate baptism gift," Sam remarked wryly, sharing a look with his girlfriend. The two parents glanced up from the wrapped box, a wince on the mother's face and the father sporting a spiked eyebrow. Carefully, Steve lifted the tape away, tearing the paper a little as he pulled it free. The lid of the white box beneath was pulled off, his wife's eyes lighting up at the top contents.

"A little lamb toy," Holly cooed, taking it from Steve and dandling it before her boy. It was similar to one that Wanda had forwarded to them, save for her child's name being emblazoned on the toy. The softness of it melded into her palm, her thumb brushing against the baby's name that was stitched across the stomach. Grant's eyes widened at the sight, his brightening gaze concentrating hard (for his age) on the stuffed animal. When she pressed it against one of his curled hands, he immediately snatched at it, fingers curling hard and pulling the cuddly toy closer. When it bopped against his cheek, he only blinked, his other hand going into his mouth even as he maintained his hold on it.

"Too freakin' cute," Kay breathed from her spot, ahead of the adoring sounds given by both mother and aunt and smiling. The baby himself hummed a little breath, his dad tapping the lamb in his hands and grinning, too.

"Hold on, there's a part two," Heather cut in after a couple of moments, looking down into the box over Steve's shoulder. A flap in the tissue paper revealed something that looked like a weird amalgamation of plastic and metal. Wonder spiked the air as he reached back in, pushing the paper out of the way to reveal it. At once, the parents' eyebrows rose, and Heather snorted in incredulity. "A drone? Seriously."

"A custom Stark drone," her brother-in-law corrected mildly, holding up device. It was smaller than some of the ones employed by SHIELD agents, with a pinhole camera already mounted. A card had been tucked in with it, and it tumbled into the commander's lap. Reading directly from it, he felt his mouth curl up at the corners as he relayed, "To keep an eye on him around the house, especially when he starts being actively mobile. It also plays nursery songs, apparently."

Holly eyed the blue-painted device warily, shaking her head as she cuddled Grant closer. "Good thing we don't have to worry about that for awhile."

"True," Steve replied, though his gaze remained riveted on the drone in hand. Curiosity and a subdued excitement began to bloom in his irises. Clearing his throat, he sat forward a little, shrugging nonchalantly. "We should probably fire it up, test it out."

Holly's brow furrowed slightly, before their friend reached around her and took the card from the team leader.

"Says here you'll have to call him to get the necessary application set up," Sam told him, trailing off as he tapped the card against the side of his pants. A moment of quiet passed, with the two friends glancing to each other surreptitiously. "Think he's busy?"

All pretense was dropped in that instant, with Steve fetching up his phone from his pocket and Sam speculating to the device's other capabilities. Scott, meanwhile, slumbered on, oblivious to it all.

"Boys and their toys, I swear to God," Holly mumbled, rocking her son and rolling her eyes playfully at her husband. Heather rose and came up behind the couch, smothering a chuckle as she twitched the sleeve of her blouse.

"Let's give them a minute," she said, tipping her head in the direction of the basement door. Hooking her thumb next, she continued, "Got something for you, specifically, as well."

"Okay, then," Holly said, agreeing to her prompt. Glancing around, she pattered over to where Kay had been abandoned, quietly inquiring if she could hold onto Grant while she stepped out for a few seconds. Though a little unsure, the other woman nodded, taking the baby and letting him settle in her arms with a guarded expression. The little guy didn't fuss at the exchange; he merely clung to his new toy and shifted his gaze onto the fascinating curtains of her bright blue hair. The men, absorbed in their task, barely grunted as Holly and her sister went downstairs. Following Heather into the basement bedroom, she hovered in the doorway as the elder sibling rummaged around in her bag, her sly smile never wavering. Leaning against the jamb, Holly felt her eyebrows incline. "What...?"

"I wanted to give this to you when I got here, but we've been running around so much that there wasn't time," Heather cut her off, crowing in delight when she found what she was looking for. Clipped papers were in her palm, and swiftly she went to her sister, holding them out to her. As Holly cautiously took them and began to peruse the contents, she explained, "I gave my freshmen classes the beginning of the year book report. Only stipulation was that they had to choose a modern novel, with it being published no earlier than 1990. With this student's permission, I saved one to copy and bring with."

Reading on, Holly's eyes nearly became the size of saucers as she stared down at the short report in hand. The content had shaken her, in one of the best ways possible. A baffled grin decorated her lips, a hand pressing over her mouth briefly as she acknowledged what she was looking at.

"Your student, she chose my book."

Heather's smile could not have become wider or prouder in that moment. "One of the report ideas was to write a letter to the main character, with questions about motivations and the like. I think she brought up some valid points...and suffice it to say, she really enjoyed it."

It was true; her student had soaked in Holly's story, was still carrying a copy of it around with her to read during study times, from what she understood. While it was fair to say that Holly wasn't on the bestseller's list, her sister did have faith in her prose and prowess to make impressions with people. And clearly, she had. It took a lot of willpower to keep the secret of the author being her sibling locked down, but she did tell the student that she might be able to mail in the piece as a fan letter, if she truly wanted.

For her part, Holly was shocked and pleased. While the sales of her book were doing decently still, she'd known better than to assume her story would be an instant classic. However, this drove home that, while she might not be acclaimed by all, she was able to reach out to someone and entertain them as much as herself. It was humbling, and made her very happy to see the evidence.

"I don't know what to say," she stammered after a few moments of silence, inhaling deeply. Looking up from the paper, happiness glittered in her eyes. "Just, just...wow."

"Don't feel obligated to answer her back. At least for several weeks." The older woman's lips curved higher, and she winked at her sister. "Gotta be able to say that it took that long for the publisher to forward it to the author, right?"

Chuckles were shared, with Holly taking another, more critical look at the questions posed by the student before folding the paper.

"Right," she murmured, tucking the copied report into her pocket. Silently resolving to take a minute to answer it in the near future, she stepped forward, scooping her sibling into a grateful hug. "Thanks, Heather."

"You're..." Her response died as she pulled back, her gaze flicking over Holly's shoulder. At first, her brown eyes widened, then narrowed as she huffed out an exasperated breath. "Oh, for the love of Pete."

Hearing the light buzz before she turned around, Holly nearly jumped back when she spun to face what was behind her. The drone had been successfully flown down the stairs; hook-up with Tony's help had evidently been achieved. It was nearly flown into the back of her head, and she almost barreled over her sister to avoid it hitting her. At once, it hovered back, the controls applied belatedly as Heather steadied her again. Glowers crossed over their faces, and the drone backed up even more, as though it was afraid of what wrath it may have incurred.

"Steven, Samuel," the younger woman growled, loud enough to be heard from the first floor. However, the end of the second name came out with a lilt, her amusement trying to break free through her faux irritation. Behind her, Heather scrubbed a hand over her face, her rapidly resurfacing grin hidden by it.

"Oops," a baritone voice floated down the stairwell; she scoffed inwardly as her husband was unapologetic in the least.

"Busted by Mom," came the other, the rich tone carrying less chagrin than hilarity.

"Better get used to that," Kay had retorted, her amusement compounded by the baby's gurgles as both mother and aunt found their way back upstairs. The women struggled to maintain their looks of distaste, and the men struggled to hold in their laughter, the drone following their path.

 **xXxXxXx**

It came out of nowhere, the assault in the warehouse. Though, in Tony's defense, it had been hidden well, almost too well. And, contrary to popular belief, he was not omniscient (no matter what some people grumbled about within capture distance of his faithful AI). However, the person who had hidden it from him—while inventive and clever—was not quite up to his level, and he was bound to discover what was going on eventually.

He just wished he could've discovered it sooner, before Peter Parker set off his personal emergency alarm (before a Tuesday evening, if he were being totally honest). The blare ripped across his penthouse, disrupting a cross-country call to Pepper. Upon realizing what he was hearing, he had hastened away, swift promises shot to his girlfriend about calling her back when the kid was done toeing the line between life and death. Pepper's response was an admonishment to keep his eye uninjured for once, the levity belying the spring of panic behind her irises. Up the stairs he went, mentally mocking up the plans for a direct tube to his suit storage facilities.

Once armored and blasting out of the Tower, he called down the private comm line to the young man, with it connecting after the third try. In a huffing, puffing voice, Peter responded almost weakly, in contrast to the harrowing screams and cries echoing around him. It took him a couple of breaths (and a couple of grunts accompanied by winded gasps from whoever he was fighting) to confess what was going on.

Parker, against his promises and his word, had gone after a major threat. At the time, he had thought it would be something he could handle, that it did not concern the Avengers or even just Tony's assistance. However, he'd been lured into a trap—though he had strongly suspected that would be the case. After all, he muttered, he'd been after the guy for several weeks.

"Wanna run that by me again, kid?" Stark managed to croak out, in total awe of the younger man, who lied worse than a four-year-old caught with his hand in the cookie jar, keeping something of that caliber from him.

"Heard...first time," the response came, cutting off in the middle as another blow was made. It was uncertain who had received and who had dealt, but the tech genius had his money on the kid making the punch. Particularly after the scream that had followed.

Swallowing down his shock and rising frustration, the older man crowed, "You're doing well for it being an ambush."

"Gotten pretty good at fakin' it, boss," the boy retorted, the forced joviality melting away quickly in the face of the onslaught. It was worse than he had expected, with men rushing him from all directions. If Stark could help get a few of them off his back, he could get the head guy, someone calling himself the Vulture.

"Another freakin' bird alias," Tony remarked to himself, circling the air in an attempt to narrow down the kid's location. A police report came in for active fire being called in at a warehouse by the docks, just as Peter confirmed it as such. Flying in that direction, he mumbled, "Got any more for me to go on, kiddo, or am I flying blind here?"

Like the good kid Peter was, he passed his private codes and permissions down the secure line, so that Tony could access his investigations and discover what he was flying into. With JJ transferring them and opening them up in flashes on the HUD, it had made even the billionaire's eyes widen.

As his laboratory assistant, and as a secret protege of the Avengers, Peter was given a lot of leeway in regards to personal projects and private experiments. Due to the permissions given by Stark, he had access to state-of-the-art equipment, and the most comprehensive database on possible criminal activity around the world was at his fingertips at least three days a week. And it appeared he had been utilizing it, as more and more suspicious incidents were cropping up altogether to close to Queens, and consequently, home. The strength of the code and firewall surrounding it was quite impressive. But, if Tony had had an inkling and a couple of hours to kill, he probably would've cracked it. Soon enough.

All the articles and suspicious materials circled around a single person: Adrian Toomes. Tony had heard of him, through shared societal circles. Having built himself up as the electronic inside person of his own small company, it had tanked several months beforehand due to fraud and embezzlement by the outside man. Not only that, he had been given contracts from the Army and the government to make imitation wings similar to those sported by the Falcon, though ultimately that had gone nowhere. Wilson didn't hold the deeds to the plans, after all, and the somewhat fanciful design that Toomes had forwarded weren't exactly what the military was looking for, as far as improvements were concerned. Rejected and broke, the downward spiral the guy had been caught in became incredibly obvious to the billionaire's eyes. And not only that, Parker had actually had a run-in with the guy earlier in the month. After busting some of the lower links of the chain during a robbery, the guy was livid with the teen; why an intelligent man would willingly throw down his mask before jetting away, even in a temper, baffled him, but Peter noted that was exactly what he had done. His ambitions were not thwarted by the efforts of the Spider-Man, as it seemed, as he soon enough was back at the game. His moves weren't large enough to garner the attention of the major players, but a minor one had picked up the trail.

He had to give credit where it was due: the kid was fantastic at research. Especially as he had left a personal document on the computer speculating the guy's next move. Going down the path of revenge, he would no doubt target several people, all with ties to key titles and placements in Queens' business infrastructures. There was even a line about the guy taking offense with Peter's high school principal; evidently, the two had come to blows over supplying the students with decent equipment, which Toomes could not deliver on. He had decided to nip it in the bud, and went to head him off once he'd gotten sight of him.

Now, the kid was stuck, with no back-up. Well, no back-up but an old man in a tin can, but Tony could certainly deal with that. Approaching from the air, Stark had to cut a hard right when shots began to ping off his armor. Apparently, Toomes had done more than just build wings for himself; he'd been a productive little beaver and farmed out a few models to some criminal crack-shots. They, however, were less of a concern than the ground crew, all of which were trying to stream in and take care of the pest problem indoors.

Well, the pest problem was fighting back, and Tony would see him come out of it alive, if not on top. Devoting his power and energy to eradicate the outward menace, the Iron Man flew and soared, repulsors arcing and burning against foes as they shot and swung at him. Slowly but surely, he was driving them back, the hired hands vanquished little by little. The winged fighters attempted to tangle with him, but though they worked well enough, they could not match Stark's suit even on its worst day. Dashing them to the ground one by one, he took a brief moment to catch his breath, looking around as he hovered midair.

"Anymore possible aerials, JJ?" he asked the AI, pulsing forward slightly. He could not see any, but that did not mean more weren't gearing up.

"I'm reading nothing in the immediate vicinity," JJ told him, the smooth, even tone of the program reflecting something like pleasure. Still, it was gone quickly as he continued, "However, I have conducted a scan of the building. It appears that Mr. Parker has secured the rogue element, but he has not been responding to any call-outs."

The sick slide of dread coursed through Tony's gut as he realized how silent the comm line was. How quiet it had been for several long moments. At once, he dipped his chin down towards the smoking warehouse, eyes widening frantically as his helmet began to conduct scans. On the HUD, the outlines of two bodies on the top loft appeared, their temperatures stark in the infrared.

"I suggest you hurry, sir," JJ remarked, with what sounded like worry creeping into his voice. Boosters fired, and at once, the billionaire was speeding towards the roof. No easy access, but he would make his own.

"On it," he replied, a hand extended forward and a laser arcing through the air to cut open a hole in the roof. Passing through it, he swiveled his head around to find his assistant and friend.

The place was an utter disaster. Shipping crates and electrical panels littered the floors, the lofted area sagging as a few supports below it had been shattered. More hired guards were spread across, each in various states of unconsciousness, their stolen Kevlar having done nothing to fend off the webbing that had caught them up and silenced them at turns. Toomes, as it turned out, was literally strung from the rafters, his wings disabled and his dark green design stained with the blood from his wounds. A streak crawled out the corner of his mouth, though it flowed down to his temple due to his positioning. Nodding once, Stark cast another glance around. Pitching himself further into the wide space, he took in a sharp breath when he spotted the lone flicker of red and blue. Beneath pallets of scattered and broken crates, and the steel beams that had been brought down atop them, Peter was almost buried, a single arm exposed for anyone to find.

"Oh, God," he breathed, zooming down to the wreckage and landing swiftly. He could not shift the wooden pieces fast enough, rising fear almost choking him as he worked. Precious seconds ticked by before he finally uncovered the boy's torso, his head. Deep gauges had cut into the arms and one of the sides of the uniform, the special webbing spanning across his arms shredded. His heart hammered in his chest as he knelt down, slipping his gauntleted hand under the teen's head. "C'mon, kiddo, c'mon."

A tremor, a shake went through the young man, and though he could not see his face or his eyes, he sensed that Parker was struggling to look at him, struggling to shake off his injuries.

"Ton...'sokay," he mumbled, voice scratchy as he began to shift himself forward. Though he tried his best to rise, he got no further than rolling onto his side closer to the older man.

"Is not," Tony retorted, the bite in his voice sharpening as the kid dropped his head back. Looping an arm over his shoulder, Tony hauled him out of the wreckage, the distant wail of sirens making his nerves snap and fray as he worked. Tugging at a panel on the side of his suit, a rappelling wire spooled out, with it being easily looped around the youngster's waist and connected to the other side. Connecting to the police scanner lines, he reported that there were men apprehended for pick-up, at the Avengers' behest, and that officers had to come immediately. After confirming that he was, indeed, Iron Man, and yes, it wasn't a sick joke, the sirens in the distance seemed to grow louder. Positioning him so that Peter's arms were wrapped around his neck, he grunted, "Hang on, Underoos. I'm getting you out of here."

No further words came from the kid, and on that worrying notion, Stark took off. Concentrating hard on keeping his balance and not burning Parker accidentally with his thrusters, he nearly missed JJ's next words.

"Mister Stark, I've taken the liberty of contacting Ms. Parker. A suit has been sent to her residence to bring her to the Tower."

"Good work, JJ." As the flight away from the warehouse continued, a stray thought tore across Tony's mind, and he felt his stomach sink as he considered it. May Parker had strong feelings about her nephew's activities over the last several months; one could only imagine what her reaction to his would be. Clearing his throat, he entreated his AI as casually as he could, "On a scale of one to 'oh, hell,' how, um, upset did she appear?"

The silence that followed his question spoke volumes, but JJ did eventually hazard an answer.

"I don't think there is an adequate scale in all of humanity that could measure her feelings on the matter, Mister Stark," the AI intoned mildly, the pronouncement doing nothing for the billionaire's nerves. Especially when it was followed up. "I would, however, recommend keeping the suit on when you do approach her. To minimize any and all possibilities of damage to your person."

"Definitely noted."

To that end, Tony definitely followed the program's advice, staying as much out of May Parker's range as he could when he finally touched down on the landing pad and brought the damaged young man indoors. The clatter of footsteps and the aura of terror permeated the air around the woman, her brow creasing as she lobbed question after question at the billionaire. Together, they brought Peter up to the infirmary, quite abandoned due to the relocation the year prior. The equipment and supplies were still in excellent shape, particularly the gurney that they shunted the kid's body onto. May worked quickly to free her nephew from his uniform, leaving off on the accusations and worry long enough to do so. The mask and armor from the torso up were dropped on the ground after removal, red and blue pieces swimming around their feet. Only taking off his helmet, Stark passed her antiseptic and bandages for some of the wounds; the least they could do was bind him up, patch him up enough for a doctor to come look at him.

"You know, I thought that giving him permission to work with you all would mean less damage to him," she stated, the lightness of her tone belying the ferocity in her eyes as she wrapped one of the wounds on Peter's arm.. Tony met her gaze frankly, finishing off the binding.

"Generally, that works when he tells us what's going on. He must have thought this was something he could handle on his own. Didn't say a word, not before..."

He trailed off, not willing to argue or fight over it. The why and the how did not matter at that moment; all they should be focusing on was Peter's well-being. As her lips thinned, she blew a stray strand of her dark hair out of her eyes, pausing her efforts to stare at Peter's prone form.

"What can we do?' she wondered, her throat constricting. She could wrap him up all the livelong day, but in the end, she knew that what she and the billionaire were doing wouldn't be enough. Her reckless and stalwart nephew needed proper treatment. But who would give it to him? "We can't take him to the hospital."

Stark frowned a little, slowing in his ministrations and meeting her gaze once more.

"If you're willing to trust the Avengers a little more, I could make some calls. The doctor at the base works with this kind of stuff everyday, all aspects." The emphasis on the last two words was not lost on her, if the widening of her eyes was anything to go by. Glimpsing the digital clock on the wall, he went on, "She could be here in an hour, tops."

May looked down at her nephew, at the boy she had raised since his infancy, as he convalesced on the gurney between them. Tenderly, she reached out, stroking a piece of his matted hair off of his forehead. As he shuddered unconsciously, her eyelids snapped shut, and she blew a sharp breath out her nose.

"...Do it," she said, only looking at Tony when she was sure she had contained her nerves. Seeing how close to the edge they both were, Stark immediately made the call, hoping that his promise could be kept. Then he would attend to the next round of calls, the ones he knew would be coming. He just hoped Rogers and the others were ready for the report he would be giving that week.

 **xXxXxXx**

It took some doing, and metaphorical elbow grease, but Doctor Cho was able to arrive within the time parameters Stark had outlined to attend to the younger Parker's injuries. All told, the kid wasn't in the worst shape he could have been in, but that he was really hurt was undeniable. After properly bandaging and stitching up the cuts, examining the bruises and testing for breaks (and finding a fair number of sprains to splint), she declared that he would, eventually, recover. How well he would recover would be determined after a couple of days of bed rest, with him ordered to stay within the confines of the Tower's infirmary in the interim. May Parker was relieved to hear that the boy would not lose his life over his decision to act, and with relief came the return of her righteous indignation. With Tony, with the Avengers, with her nephew and his rash actions as they became more and more commonplace...with herself for actually going along with it, most of the time...it came out in bits and pieces. Peter avoided the brunt of it, mainly because he spent the better portion of the first day after the battle sleeping and recovering.

Which they all knew would not last indefinitely.

As it stood, the boy had to be excused from school for the rest of the week, at least, and his aunt had secured the days off for him. However, that did not excuse him from the work that would need to be made up. Emails from his teachers to his aunt were forwarded to him, all the packets and worksheets for the remainder of the week all set up and ready for him to complete. That Friday found him in such a state. Studious fellow that he was, he was making decent headway with it all, fumbling for the pencils and such provided for him in the small infirmary, working around the IV that was still attached to him. He had the time—between check-ups, of course—when the doctor and nurse assigned to him weren't around for him to do so. Grumbling under his breath, he was cracking into his advanced chemistry work when three light knocks cracked against the door. Drawn out of his musings, he blinked upon seeing the person through the glass panel. Steve Rogers, the now-commander of the Avengers, was there. The blond man grinned at him through the glass, though it was obvious that it did not reach his eyes. Swallowing once, Peter dipped his chin, waiting as the older man opened the door wide enough to poke his head in. He quickly stashed his papers and textbook back onto the rolling tray that had been provided, shunting all to the side.

"Hey, Peter," Steve greeted the teenager, his tone calm and solid as ever. It had been months since the last time either had been in each other's presence. Though he was required, as per his agreement to receive training from the Avengers, to report in monthly with one of them, he had not actually spoken with the older fellow since his promotion, or the birth of his baby. The fact that the previous meeting had been conducted in a similar setting, only with their roles reversed, was not lost on the young man, and he couldn't help but smirk the tiniest bit.

"Captain, um, Commander...Steve," he corrected himself, scooting a little to sit up straighter. Wincing at the pull of his wounds, he gestured for the older man to come in. "Hi."

Entering and closing the door softly behind him, Rogers took up the empty chair by the side of the bed, sitting and leaning back into it.

"How are you feeling?" the commander asked him, his blue eyes drifting from stitches to bandages.

"Better than yesterday. Good enough to start homework." He nodded to the tray, and the corners of the commander's eyes creased. As a blond eyebrow spiked in question, he hastened to elaborate, "My aunt told the school I got hit by a car as an excuse. A crazy cab driver who took off when I was crossing to get to the subway."

Steve sucked in a breath, blowing out a sardonic whistle.

"Ouch. But easier to explain than some psychotic engineer with delusions of grandeur."

Parker let out an audible scoff. "Yeah."

More pleasantries were exchanged, with Steve inquiring after Peter's start of the new school year, and Peter asking after the little guy's progress. The pride in the commander's eyes was impossible to ignore, even if the baby was limited in his abilities at the moment. However, the elephant in the room rumbled in the background as they spoke, the chit-chat trailing off as the serious nature of it all descended again.

"Pete, you know why I'm here."

He waited for the teenager to nod his understanding, watching as the gleam in his dark eyes dulled at the reminder. Of course he knew; him taking a flying trip to New York City had meant more than what was on the surface.

"I wish I could say it was just because I care about how you're doing, because I do, but you know better than that. Though you're not officially on the team, you're linked with us," he stated, witnessing the youngster shuffle in the bed, his brown eyes wary of what he would say next. It was true, though; as part of the arrangement to train him and, in essence, champion him in the future, the Avengers were liable for his well-being. And he had toed the line too closely for comfort. Obviously, Tony had reported in on him, and he had been expecting at least one of them to come down because of it all. Inhaling deeply, Steve affixed him with a questioning glance, concern blooming over his features as well. "Why didn't you say anything? Why did you hide this until it was almost too late?"

Had it been a year ago, Peter had thought he would stammer through an answer, unsure as to what he could say to the leader of the Avengers. He would not have known how to tell him, to make him understand his point. However, a year ago, he would never have been in that position to begin with. He didn't even have his new-found abilities before the previous November. Things had, inevitably, changed since then, and with those changes came the ability to assert himself, to make himself heard to living legends. And so he would do so. Even if his stomach was churning a little, despite all that.

Lifting a shoulder, he muttered, "You guys have so much to worry about—"

"So much that we can't be bothered to look out our own back door?" Steve cut in, his eyebrows inclining slightly.

"—And since I'm part of this world, too, I should be able to do it on my own," the teenager finished, his back stiffening. "I thought I could handle it. Linked or not, you won't always be there. Not forever. No one is."

The last words dripped out of his mouth unbidden, and a hot flush invaded his face. Steve's eyes widened significantly, and it made the rock in his gut tighten further. The teen dropped his gaze to his blanketed knees, the pencil in his hand twirled from finger to finger in an effort to distract him from his slip. He hadn't meant to say it, hadn't meant to allude to the fact they, that they could all end up...like Uncle Ben. That he wouldn't always...

Swallowing thickly, he kept twirling his pencil, letting the seconds tick by. Soon enough, he looked up again, and he saw the solid sympathy invade the commander's gaze. He saw the empathy there, and he took a steadying breath as Steve opened his mouth.

"But we are here, now, to help when you need it," he reminded him softly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. Tilting his head to the left, he thinned his lips briefly before continuing, "I get it. Really, I do. It might feel like we're patronizing you or underestimating you when we say that we should be the first ones in on situations like this, but that's not the case. And it's not a judgment call against you. We have a lot of faith and confidence in you, Parker."

The confession fired up the twinge of guilt in the young man, and he could only awkwardly scratch the back of his neck. Steve leaned back in his chair again, and sighed.

"Just, next time, show a little faith and confidence in us, too."

Peter bit his lip, focusing on a point on the far wall as the conversation repeated over and over in his head. While he, deep down, still maintained that he was in the right in acting against the threat that had risen in the city, he could not deny that he could have used the help. At least, he wouldn't deny it to himself. When he first caught the blips of what was coming over the last couple of months, the heists and robberies, the incited violence in the streets around Queens, the connections linking everything back to the deranged engineer, he had thought about it. But with Tony returning more and more to the base, returning to the actual Avengers and their work, and with the full teams already looking to greater concerns, he had taken it upon himself to deal with. Dealing with the meetings and conversations, and the reasons why the rep did not want him doing anything (he swore the older woman had it out for him, specifically) in favor of the others taking charge...he just didn't want to wait for it all to get hashed out. Maybe that was a mistake, overall, but on some of the points, he would not apologize for acting as he had.

Still, he eventually looked back at the commander, dipping his chin once before exhaling sharply.

"Well, either way, New York is safe." Peter cringed when Steve shot him a look and he sheepishly conceded, "At least a little bit. And it only cost me being around for homecoming."

"Too bad you have to miss it all."

"Eh, some parts aren't all that great," he mumbled, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as Rogers waited for him to continue. "Football sucks. Jocks suck."

Discomfort and distaste flashed over Steve's features, unbidden memories of his own schooldays pushing to the fore.

"Yeah, some of them really do," he murmured, unconsciously rubbing at the back of his neck. He was still soothing away the rough grips that sent him reeling in the halls when the other guys had enough of his smart mouth and the teachers weren't paying attention, even at his age. Frowning briefly, he shook his head, forcibly shoving the memories back down and taking in a deep breath. Glancing at Peter again, he tipped his head and attempted a smile. "The other parts probably would have been fun, though."

The kid's frown deepened, his eyes dropping again to his hands.

"Maybe the dance, if you've got a date," he conceded, the pencil flipping from his fingers into his lap. A rosy color flushed into his face, and he cleared his throat a couple of times. Spying this, Steve felt his smile curve knowingly, and was about to inquire further when he spotted the sudden flood of dejection across Peter's irises. Yet another thing he was all too familiar with, particularly at sixteen. The young man shrugged again, and focused on the tray holding his books. "And I...whatever."

Reaching out, he tugged the rolling tray closer, opening his chemistry textbook and intensely concentrating on turning the pages. Whatever chances he had before the mess with the psycho who called himself the Vulture started, he knew that those were practically nonexistent now. No matter that he'd done his best, saved as many people as he possibly could...in the end, he was still himself, the nerdy kid that had gotten himself pummeled trying to make things right after causing trouble. The girl he'd been crushing on for the last year or so, the girl he was working up the gumption to ask out, he was sure she had something else lined up. Before the battle at the warehouse went down, at least; she was dating one of the sucky jocks he lamented about earlier. She would never see, or know, the truth of it all, and more to the point, she probably wouldn't want anything to do with him after that. Scratching idly at the bandage along his jaw, he pointedly ignored the new round of sympathy fluttering into the commander's expression.

"I've got homework to do," Peter said, casually dismissing his previous words as if they didn't matter. As if the unwelcome truth didn't hit him square in the chest, and as if the older man nearby didn't recognize it for what it was. Still, Steve merely breathed a sigh out his nose, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair and getting up swiftly.

"Fair enough," he told him, shuffling over to the door and hooking a thumb to the hall beyond. "I'll leave you to it; I've got to go discuss this all with Representative Hawley."

The teen nodded; he figured that would be the case. The representative did take some personal responsibility for them all, and it was better for her to know the details as they came. Maybe.

"You make it sound like it's punishment," Parker remarked aloud, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly; he would certainly consider it as such if he had to speak to her directly. Steve snorted audibly at that, shaking his head before raking a hand through his hair.

"Oh, trust me: talking to her will be a cakewalk in comparison to speaking with your aunt."

Now Peter winced visibly, which set off another round of pained twitches and groans at the pull of his wounds on his face.

"Gotcha."

Tight, tired grins were exchanged as the commander exited the infirmary, and Peter leaned back against his pillow, suddenly exhausted by it all. Homework could wait, his own brain spinning in his skull could wait; in that moment, all he wanted was a nap. And nap he did.

By the time Steve had finished his call in with the U.N. representative, he was wishing for a rest just as much. The meeting with Hawley went about as well as expected—which was to say, not terribly well. The older woman was still infuriated at the teenager's compulsions, and, had she any true authority over him, would be cracking down harder on the boy than was indicated by the team. However, Rogers was quick to set her straight on the matter. As he was still recovering, dressing down Parker at that point in the juncture would ultimately get them nowhere. Instead, he would wait until the boy was healed before dealing retribution. That Peter would be fully remonstrated was not in question; it would be the terms of restriction that they would be negotiating in the meantime that would be in the air. Hawley wanted Stark to start watching the kid much closer than he already had been, but Rogers was quick to point out that Tony was nobody's babysitter, no matter what affinity he felt for the kid. Eventually, she left him with a rapping admonishment, with his promise that they would give the boy more than a tap on the wrist for endangering himself unnecessarily. Once that was secured, she ended the call.

It was nearly two hours later by the time he returned to the infirmary hall. He stopped in his tracks when he spied Stark standing there. He was not alone; May Parker stood in front of him, her tone low, but her posture rigid. The billionaire's arms were crossed over his chest, an almost defensive stance taken as she continued to speak at him in her hushed cadence. His gaze flickered away from her to Steve, a flash begging for aid flitting over his irises. Catching the split-second distraction, she turned to see what he was looking at. The commander straightened in his stance, but still felt the burn in her gaze as she gave him a curt nod. At once, she muttered something else to Tony, who in turn muttered back to her before she strode away. The door to Peter's room opened, and he could practically feel the relief floating down the hall to him as Stark's shoulders relaxed. Striding over to him, the two men shared a look before darting their glances at the glass panels. Inside the room, Peter was upright again, hands folded in his lap as his aunt fussed around him. The privacy controls were on, so no sound came out, but it was clear that whatever she'd been saying to Tony, she was giving a variation to her nephew in that minute. At least, until he winced in pain; at that instant, she thinned her lips, carefully tending to him with a significant expression telling him they were nowhere near finished.

"He'll be okay," the commander pronounced, arms folding and his chin rising. "He's a tough kid."

Stark shot him a sidelong glance and snorted. "High praise from a Brooklynite."

There was nothing that Steve could do but smirk at that, and so he otherwise let the sentence pass. Silence settled over the pair as they watched the kid get settled in, and May Parker took the visitor's chair beside him, fetching up one of his textbooks (a composition book, if the title were anything to go by) and thumbing through it for a moment. Once she started to speak again, clearly reciting from the text, Peter fetched up a pencil and notebook, scowling in fierce concentration, the bruises and bandaged cuts on his face standing out as he did so. The billionaire broke the quiet between them first, letting out a deep exhalation.

"His aunt is looking for a harsher crackdown on his actions from us." Off Steve's peripheral glance, he shrugged. "I told her we can only go so far, but ultimately, he's going to do what he thinks is right."

The blond man inclined his head, canting it in understanding. "It's hard, but I think she'll be able to accept it."

Tony felt his eyebrows inch ever-closer to his hairline when he said that. Glimpsing the brunet man's incredulous expression, Steve outright winced and shrugged.

"Eventually," he amended his earlier statement. When Stark's eyebrows remained in place, he sighed. "To a degree."

"Yeah. She's his mom, basically," the tech genius pointed out, raking a hand through his hair. "It won't come quickly or easily."

Rogers grimaced; he could well imagine how hard the acceptance would be to come by. Little by little, she was working to take it in, for her nephew's sake, but the choice do so would never be simple. Not for any parent.

"No, it won't," he agreed, giving the interior of the infirmary a final glance before pivoting on his heel. Stark turned as well, the pair walking together in an almost companionable silence. Once they started to take the steps down from the hall into the main lounge area of the upper decks, Stark could not help himself. Rolling his eyes up to the ceiling, he blew out another sharp breath.

"Between Peter, the masked guy in Hell's Kitchen, that one PI, and some new dust-ups ranging from Harlem to Washington Heights, this city is going crazy," he remarked, ticking off the points on his fingers as he went. "It's almost impossible to keep tabs on it all."

Steve returned his exasperation with a look of resignation. He'd read the reports that had come in, along with Tony's private investigations. It had been happening since the search for the scepter had neared its conclusion; the police were running themselves ragged looking into occurrences surrounding the mentioned individuals, with more and more news being forwarded to the Avengers every day. The masked man was still doling out his brand of blind justice, while the PI had gone to ground after several disturbing instances in Midtown. Everything was piling up, and while it had all ultimately been shelved in the past, in was unlikely that it could stay that way.

Following Tony over to the bar along the far interior wall, he leaned his elbows against the sleek grained top, tapping his thumb against it as the billionaire tipped out two tumblers of whiskey.

"We'll keep an eye on it," he promised, taking the glass Tony slid over to him and tapping against his compatriot's in a mute salute. Sipping and rolling the oakey, smoked liquid over his tongue, he nodded back towards the infirmary again. "Peter could probably help you with that...once he's recovered, of course. Maybe something could be done about all of them."

"Maybe." A smirk broke over Tony's mouth then, and his eyebrow arched as he tipped back a healthy slug of his drink. "Think we could get Fury down there to nail them with the good ol' Avengers Initiative speech?"

Steve's expression turned thoughtful as he weighed the statement in his mind. While Tony was, for the most part, joking, he had heard the underlying seriousness beneath it.

"I think it's going to be less about induction and more about setting terms we can all live with. Once they decide to do so," he said slowly, knowing that things were, inevitably, coming to a head. Fury's words from long ago surfaced; the world was filling up with people of incredible power, without restraint or control on their actions. And while he would never wish to take away their freedom in regards to utilizing those powers, Steve did know that those people would have to make choices that involved more than just a single borough, or a single city. What he hoped was that the choices that would be made, would be made to complement the choices of others. Tipping his head to Stark, he murmured, "Let me know when that is."

Task given, Stark dipped his chin in mock compliance.

"Will do," he responded, his sarcastic salute belying the earnestness in his eyes. Swallowing another mouthful of whiskey, the quiet between them cropped yet again, the tenor of it lighter than it had been in the recent past. Endeavoring to keep that lightness, Stark turned another question over in his head, one that he gave voice to with a devilish glint in his eye. "The drone working out?"

The wryness in Steve's grin melted into something happier.

"It is, incredibly well. Grant stares at it when it hovers over him," he told him, shaking his head to himself. As much fun as he had manipulating the thing (with Sam's aid), it was entertaining to watch the infant's fascination with the device whenever it got close to him. Recalling something else, he professed, "He loves the stuffed sheep, too."

Tony's smirk was bordering on smarmy territory at that, a delighted gleam in his eye as he dipped his chin and rested his hands on the bar top.

"Now that you know how awesome my gifts are, maybe you'll make me a godfather for the next one." Pausing and considering the implications of the possible nomination, he shrugged again. "Honorary, at least."

The corners of Steve's eyes crinkled in good humor, and he canted his head. "We'll see."

Thus decided, the two men spent the remainder of the commander's time before his flight back upstate drinking and occasionally sharing words, more broken pieces mending as the afternoon passed.

* * *

 **A/N:** Little Grant gets baptized, with Sam and Heather standing as his godparents (for the record, Steve and Holly are Protestant, of Anglican and Lutheran practice respectively in their upbringings, in this canon. So Grant had a Protestant baptism. Just in case anyone had any questions). The mental image of Grant bringing Steve's tie to his mouth is totally inspired by the gif of Chris Evans in a suit, holding a baby that (I think) is trying to gnaw on a promotional pass. Super freakin' adorable; I'm sure if you search for it, it'll pop up in the Google machine. And Holly gets her first piece of fan mail...fan book report? Either way, it happened. Heather stops by for her first appearance in the story!

And speaking of first appearances...Peter Parker also makes his entrance onto the stage of _In Due Course_. I purposefully kept things vague in terms of _Homecoming_ , due in part that summaries around the plot that have been given out are vague by nature, and also because this is an AU, so some plot points in the movie will not be applicable here. As well as that, I wanted to touch on Avenger reactions, particularly with Steve as the new commander and Peter actually being something of a team protege at this point. So anything surrounding _Homecoming_ will be considered fluid at this point, and won't involve too much detail until later on, possibly. Besides, when I write Peter, it tends to be in regards to how he floats in the circles of the others.

Is this the end of appearances by certain characters? Oh, no...not by a long shot. I dare you to guess where and who I go to next. It might take you by surprise...or not. Either way, that will be something I will be touching again in the next chapter. Also, the next chapter may, like this one, be late next week. Although, technically, it will be more on time, as I am going to be shifting back to a Monday-Tuesday schedule for my writing. My work schedule(s) is going back to what it used to be, and for that, I am so happy. I thank you all for your patience, and I must ask for it, for a little longer. Please and thank you. :)

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	6. Chapter 6

Autumn started setting in around the Avengers base, the trees showing hints of the changing colors as September gave way to October. The air began to feel crisper, hinting at the change still yet to come in the seasons. However, in spite of the turn of the weather, business at the base continued as it ever had, with new recruits being set about their paces, the office workers indulging in their routines, and the team they supported in the challenge of protecting the world preparing themselves accordingly. After the debacle in New York had been looked into (and Peter Parker had been reprimanded and dealt his punishment—additional hours spent under Tony's supervision even in his heroic guise), the routines fell back into place. One such routine involved extensive training sessions to keep the team in top form, and that day would include it. As commander, Steve Rogers was heading the bout, intent on keeping himself and the chosen members on track in between missions. Having changed into his uniform ahead of time, he mentally reviewed the remainder of his day in his head, knowing that a few reports awaited him before he would head home for the night. A fairly standard itinerary for him those days, but the standard was about to be tossed out the window.

Suddenly, the floor under his feet started to rattle, and immediately he braced himself for balance. Looking out the window, he caught sight of the arcs of lightning cutting through the sky, the clear blue marred by the swirl of clouds. The significance of a clear day adopting the sudden swirl of a storm struck him, and at once he altered his path, jogging away from the training room hall to the nearest exit. The electrical arcs pulsed and crackled in the air as he broke free of the building, making his hair stand on end. He was not the only one watching the phenomenon; several agents had littered the upper platforms, pressing against the rails to look as the lightning converged on a point to the south. With a flash and a boom, the lightning dissipated, the air free of static and charge. Misting smoke rose from the burned grasses of the field, no doubt scoured into thick, interconnecting lines, as had been done the last time lightning had arced so close to the base.

And in the center, just like last time, stood Thor, his arm lowering and his hand gripping hard around Mjolnir's handle. His blond hair was longer, stirring around him the aftermath, his dark armor scuffed in a few places, but he otherwise appeared as he had when he'd left. Taking stock of his surroundings, the larger fellow's gaze met his, and the grim set of his features smoothed out into a wide smile.

"Friend Steve!" the god roared out, a hand raised in greeting. His crimson cloak seemed to billow around him as he stepped forward, and Steve was jarred out of his staring to meet him halfway.

"Thor!" he replied, extending his hand to shake the god's. The behemoth of a fellow ignored it, choosing to envelope him in a mighty bear hug. A few raps on the back, and then he let go, allowing his friend to back away and catch his breath. Tipping his chin up, Steve went on, "I didn't think you'd be back."

Clapping him on the shoulder, Thor let the corner of his mouth twist up. "Indeed, not so soon, I suppose?"

Steve canted his head, grinning ruefully. "Actually, I was beginning to think the opposite."

And that was the truth. He had wondered about Thor, wondered how he was while out in the greater universe, searching for answers to the most troubling questions that had risen after Ultron's birth and subsequent demise. In all honesty, as time wore on, he began to think that perhaps he may never see him again, that the journey had taken him beyond the point of return. It was more than likely that would happen; after all, he himself had alluded to the notion that more dangerous and horrifying things lurked on the edges of their respective worlds. It could happen, and after a year and a half gone, it probably had. In that moment, though, he was pleased to see that was not the case.

A glimmer traipsed across the god's irises, and his own smile turned wistful. "Ah. Just as well that I proved you incorrect, then."

Smirking a little, Steve waved towards the door of the lower hall, inviting him inside. The agents and recruits who were loitering along the platforms outside quickly disbanded, rushing off to appear busy as they passed. The two fellows walked in stride, the god following him as he led the way through the base. It was just as he remembered it, albeit more lived-in and with new faces intermixed in the crowds. As they passed by, hushed whispers whirled around them, muted speculations about the Asgardian's return to Earth bandied about as Steve told him about a few things that had altered. He had, evidently, missed a great battle some months previous, one that had nearly cost Rogers his life. However, the expanded brotherhood of the Avengers had rallied together for facing the enemy, and he had made it through. His health affirmed, Thor gave positive reassurance that he was well, and that Asgard was faring decently at the moment. The twists and turns of the halls eventually brought them to the space dedicated for training, to the upper walkway that allowed an overhead view of those who were inside. Here, his friend hesitated, turning over a thought in his mind before voicing it.

"You find any answers out there about the Infinity Stones?" Steve inquired, pointedly lowering his voice as they paused by the double doors. At once, the joviality in his friend's face dropped, and he twisted the handle of his hammer as he answered.

"I had followed several trails, but sadly all have gone cold. Save for one, hence why I have returned." Lifting a shoulder, he cast a glance at Steve's face, determinedly pushing onward. "That, and I was beginning to miss Midgard. I thought I might as well come back for a time, see how you all have fared in my absence. It does not seem much has changed. Save for your uniform."

Steve glanced down at the mentioned gear. In an effort to separate himself at least slightly from the Captain America get-up he'd had in the past, the uniform's armor was nearly black, from neck piece to the shooting gloves and boots. Still, a silver star sat at the center of his chest, bands with titanium woven into it and extending across to his shoulders. A helmet had been crafted as well, the same shade and with no insignia marking it, was in the storage locker. It was waiting to be retrieved for the training sessions, as was his new shield.

"That's just one thing," he remarked, meeting his friend's eye again and smirking slightly. Pushing the door open, he allowed the god to enter the upper deck first, allowed him to see all who had gathered below. Exhaling sharply out his nose, he could not help the bubble of laughter in his chest. The god had made it partway out, and was openly staring down into the room, watching the others milling about. The simulation that was on the schedule was being delayed for Steve's arrival, and so the majority of the members were waiting patiently. Or, as patiently as they could; even from that distance, Scott's jiggling leg was obvious as he sat on an obstacle box, and Sam fiddled with his gloves to make them sit right. Wanda was projecting aura balls and managing a perverse form of juggling, Bucky and Natasha maintaining some form of conversation with her in the meantime. Just beyond, the Vision leaned against the far wall, arms folded and silent as he looked on them all. However, as the commander approached the rail as well, he noticed the android shift in his stance, his electric blue eyes shooting up to the veiled walkway. A slow, careful grin broke out on his lips, and yet he did not say anything. Instead, he merely inclined his head in the god's direction, looking away once he did the same. Glimpsing him out the corner of his eye, Steve could see the lines cut across Thor's forehead. He leaned forward, bracing himself against the railing. He had been given prior warning about the newer members of the team, and so he attended to them with greater interest, with one in particular drawing his attention.

"Friend Steve, why does he wear your colors?" Following the line of his finger as he pointed, Rogers felt his mouth a little. Thor had met Bucky before, in the aftermath of Ultron's attack on Sokovia, but at that point, he was merely an acquaintance, a black-garbed insurgent that ran alongside the others with SHIELD. It had to be something of a surprise to see him sporting the colors of the flag, albeit in darker tones, and with Steve's old shield perched upon his arm.

"Because they're his now," the other blond man replied, nodding once in confirmation to Thor's silent suspicions. "Bucky is Captain America."

"And you?"

Steve shrugged, his hands coming to rest on his belt. "Just Commander Rogers for the time being."

Thor was quiet for several long moments, his appraising gaze now sliding over his companion. Under the scrutiny, Steve felt himself stand taller, wondering what the bigger fellow was considering, thinking about when he looked at him and saw him in that higher role. A minute smile played over the god's mouth, and his eyes narrowed slightly in further examination.

"I applaud you, my friend, but it does make me wonder as to why. You seemed quite content with your title and status, last time we met," he indicated. He was not wrong; the last time Thor was present on Earth, Steve was more than pleased to remain as he was, to stay as a field leader and make his way through the new world he was adapting to still. Focusing on a niche in the far wall, he chewed the inside of his lip for a few seconds.

"Why? Well..." he trailed, thinking how best to put it all. Though he had told Thor about a few of the things that had happened since he'd gone, he hadn't told him everything. Of course, the answer was simple, but as far as presentation went, he had several options. Flicking his gaze over his friend's face, he lit upon an answer. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Would you like to come to my house for dinner, Thor?"

Somewhat nonplussed by the invitation, Thor managed a polite inclination of the head, curiosity refusing to be quelled in his irises.

"Nothing would please me more," he accepted, before gesturing down at the training room below. "But first, I would like to meet with the others."

Dipping his chin, Steve let his smile grow again. "Sure thing."

On that note, the commander raised a hand, calling out to the AI in charge of the privacy measures to lift them up. Almost as one, the team looked up, and were shocked by the new presence at the commander's side. Natasha, after shooting a sidelong glance to Bucky, tripped over to the bottom of the stairwell, gladly accepting the god's embrace when he descended. Off her cue, the remainder of the team ringed around him, Wanda getting a hug of her own and Sam determinedly keeping enough distance between them for a handshake. Scott, having only the secondhand accounts of his teammates and the information passed on via the database, looked about ready to wet himself when the god approached him, his excitement skyrocketing as he shook the fellow's hand. ("Holy crap, Thor! Hey, would you mind taking a picture with me? My daughter is gonna flip when she hears about it.") With Bucky, there was a sense of bringing everything back down to Earth, a welcome passing his lips as he maintained his stoic demeanor. Until Nat poked him in the side, telling him to drop it for a few moments. He gave each one enough time to ask questions, most of which had to do with his return. He answered in the vaguest terms possible, his position being that he was not ready to divulge publicly his goals just yet. Eventually, his word was accepted, though the Black Widow looked him up and down, all but silently promising that she would discover the truth on her own terms, and the Scarlet Witch purposefully averted her eyes, as though she were forcing herself to not look too deep. Stepping away to fetch up the last of his uniform pieces, Steve slid his new shield on his arm as he entered the room again, asking if Thor wished to join them in the training bout. The god declined, but he did agree to observing all from the walkway above, to see the progress made in his absence.

The pace of the afternoon resumed, with the team performing well in the simulations. Rogers, despite the lack of action in his new role, was still in form, the others doing their part to keep up as well. The god witnessed the dodges, the jumps and the dives, the call-outs bandied between each person as the simulated obstacles appeared and moved around them. A wave of nostalgia hit him as he watched, the memories of similar training bouts, both there and on Asgard, dancing across his mind. He was jarred out of his thoughts as the AI announced the end of the session. Following the others out, he made tentative promises to meet with them another night, going with the new commander up to the offices. Parting from them all, he made contact with Maria Hill as Steve finished up the leftover reports he had to take care for the day, the base director pleased to see him as well. However, he made it clear that his journey to Midgard had to be kept quiet for the time being when she insisted on calling in Fury as well. On the morrow, he promised that he would get in touch with the man, but for the night, he simply wanted to just be. Well, he did want something more than that, but he was unable to pursue it before the end of the workday came around. Soon enough, Rogers had fetched him up, changed back into his civilian clothing and his keys in hand. On the way to his conveyance, he allowed the god to examine his new shield, allowed him to look at the design and how the interlocking plates of the vibranium actually could split into two separate devices.

The drive to his friend's home was relatively short, the vehicle's rumbling as Steve drove filling the silence between them. As the open space of the base gave way to greenery and the stretch of road, he let his shoulders relax, his bearing less than normal in those short minutes. Coming upon the property, he looked at the slate-blue house, the pillars and wooden posts of the front porch cleaned of dropped needles and leaves. It seemed a solid building, accompanied by the garage. Looking over, he spotted the vehicle belonging to Steve's wife, who had gotten back before they had. Upon actually entering the domicile, he felt warmth, a sense of comfort permeating around him in the small kitchen (small by an Asgardian prince's standards). The tension within him, much like it had on the ride over, was melting away further as he glanced around, taking in the photographs on the refrigerator and the strewn books upon the table at the far end.

"Holl, you here?" Steve raised his voice, letting Thor get his bearings for a moment.

"Living room!" she called out. Tipping a palm out, he gestured for his friend to follow along. As the bigger blond fellow stepped through the space (his appraising gaze falling over the interior and the furniture as he went), he cut through to the living room, coming upon Holly just as she rose from a crouch. Kissing her briefly, his hand pressed into the small of her back, guiding her forward. Confusion lit her features as he did so, her brow furrowing slightly. "What's...Thor?"

The furrow was gone, replaced by genuine surprise as her dark eyes widened at the sight of the god. For his part, Thor stepped closer, his smile brightening.

"Lady Holly, I'm pleased to see you again," he said, enfolding her into a hug. Granted, it was far gentler than the one Steve had been gifted with earlier, but he still managed to lift her off her feet for a moment. The shock in her face only lessened a little when he set her back on her feet; although she had met with him before, and had no issue with the god in general, she hadn't thought they were close enough for him to initiate that type of greeting with her. Still she accepted it all in good grace, grinning up at him.

"Yeah, it's good to see you, too. It's, it's been awhile," she stammered, tucking back the loose strands of her hair behind her ear.

"A year and a half, by this earth's standards, I think," Thor posited, inclining his chin.

"You're right," she chuckled, the wave of nerves inside her cresting and falling in that moment. She risked a sideways glance to her husband, but her next question was directed at the god. "What brings you by?"

Thor's expression remained placid, though the depth of seriousness invading his irises spoke volumes.

"Several things, including the prospect of vittles," he said, attempting to lighten the tone with a tip of his head back towards the kitchen. Holly's brow quirked, and she bit her lip momentarily.

"Steve invited you to dinner," she responded, walking the statement through out loud. Nods around her confirmed that was the case, and she blew out a short breath. "Sure, that's cool. Just let me—"

A sharp, high-pitched crow cut into her words, and the god could not help but wince.

"What was that?" Thor wondered, although the intuition in his voice was obvious. Another coo came, and Holly let out a fast giggle, smiling despite the interruption.

"That would be this little guy," she responded, turning and kneeling on the floor. Looking down, Thor's eyebrows inclined at the infant strapped into the shifting seat beside her; he hadn't noticed the babe before. The little one waved his balled fists as she released him, scooping him out of the seat and standing again. Smoothing down his hair, she murmured, "He's being fussy with me, but maybe he'll be a bit better once Daddy says hello."

Steve snickered, but he dutifully set his shield down on the couch before opening his arms to them.

"Okay, I can take a hint," he muttered, accepting the baby as his wife passed him over. With a final peck to the child's head, she went off, going into the kitchen to pull together some dinner. The little one seemed to brighten considerably, the curves of his frown faded as he was held closer. Steve crooned his hellos to the babe, and the god, his expression never wavering, watched all of this, the pieces falling into place. Catching his staring, Steve cleared his throat, stepping over to his friend and holding up the baby boy so that he could see his face better. "Thor, this is Grant. My son."

Blinking, Thor's face softened, a small smile coming to his lips. Holding out a single finger, the grin grew as the babe's hand grasped it.

"Hello, little one," he greeted the child, chuckling as he gurgled and cooed back. Glancing up at Steve, his gaze took on a knowing air, his tone tempered low. "So this is why."

Understanding in place, Steve gave him a solemn nod. "Yes."

Soon enough, both fellows were called into the kitchen, the vittles prepared for them (spaghetti, which the god tucked into with gusto and which Holly was grateful was enough for both him and Steve to get their fill of). The baby came with them, his little bouncing seat set on the table at the unoccupied end so that they would not have to separate from him just yet. Grant Joseph, it had seemed, was only a little over two months old, though the way he kicked and squirmed about in his seat made him already appear quite active and strong. One or the other of his parents would reach out towards him, playing with his hands or feet in between eating and the conversation. Devouring all the noodles and garlic bread set before him, the god enjoyed the repast, pleased to learn of the progress in the younger woman's own life (she had sold a novel, the culmination of five years of work, and was already receiving accolades for it). Thus the meal passed, with a few references to his own travels put in a few times as well. As the last of the food had been dished out to him and the commander—leftovers were rare in the household, anyway, if Holly's teasing tone was anything to go by—he could sense the shift in the air, knew that it was nearly time to tell.

"So why are you back?" Steve pressed eventually, his patience on its last legs. Thor had been putting off answering that question since the afternoon, and now, he had no excuse to deflect. The god lifted a shoulder at him, breathing a sigh out his nose.

"Put simply, I need to find someone who can help with the conundrum of the stones," he pronounced, cleaning his mouth with the napkin provided and leaning back against his chair. "I intend to speak with Eric Selvig, and also to Jane, to keep them apprised of the situation, but I seek the help of another."

Holly cleared her throat, placing her hands on the table and preparing to rise. "Maybe I should go."

A placating palm flew up, Thor brushing away her concern.

"No, do not leave on my account. There's no harm in you knowing."

The tips of her ears were beginning to burn, but she made no move to go. Still, she tried once again.

"Well, it's also time to feed Grant, so—"

The god canted his head, unperturbed in the least. "Certainly don't let me hinder you."

Carefully, she nodded, accepting his word. Turning her attention to her husband, she scratched at the curve of her jaw.

"Steve, do we have any bottles ready?"

His eyes widened, and he sheepishly tugged at the collar of his shirt. "Uh...no. Sorry, sweetheart. I sent the last one with this morning. I meant to tell you, but..."

She lifted a shoulder, brushing it off. "It's okay. Just...just give me a sec."

Steve rose when she did, gently taking her by the elbow and drawing her away from the table as she passed by. Thor averted his gaze, concentrating on taking another large mouthful of pasta to afford them a small moment of privacy they strove for across the room.

"We could mix up some formula," the commander was saying, his voice hushed and his bright eyes darting to a cupboard off to the side. At once, she shook her head, dismissing the notion.

"I'm not tapped out, hon," his wife confessed, tipping her chin down towards her chest. Her free hand came up, patting his bicep affectionately. Stiffening her spine, she announced confidently, "It'll be fine."

After a moment or two, he nodded, conceding to her determination and releasing his hold on her. With a final pat on his arm, she swiftly exited the room, her feet pattering up the stairs. She returned a short time later with a bundle of cloth in hand. Eyeing it curiously, Thor could not help but stare as she arranged it about her neck, letting the rest of it fall over her front as Steve whisked their child out of his seat. Bodily, he blocked the god's view of her for a moment, the baby disappearing under the cloth. An inkling of an idea of what was going on bloomed in his mind, but the oddness of it all stilled his tongue. For a few seconds, at least.

"What are you doing, Holly?" Thor asked once Steve sat back down in his chair, tipping his chin at the cloth and the stir of Grant's little feet behind it. His friend visibly stiffened beside him, but he kept his attention on the young woman. Holly, occupied with keeping the little guy steady, waited until he'd fully latched before responding.

"I'm just covering up to feed him." As the other fellow continued to merely stare at her, head cocking to the left, she mirrored his expression. "Is that not a thing on Asgard?"

Thor's brow furrowed, and he shook his head. "No, the women on Asgard don't do that. They simply just feed their babes. Or the wet nurse does, depending on the circumstances."

Taken aback by his statement—and also by the fact that the occupation of wet nurse still existed somewhere in the universe—Holly shared a loaded glance with Steve.

"Really? And nobody says anything bad about it?"

A blond eyebrow spiked at her then.

"Why should they? They were taken care of in such a way when they were young; it makes no sense to censure others for continuing to do so with their children." Off the looks his companions were shooting him, Thor felt the tremor of befuddlement rise inside him. "Things are so different here?"

Steve shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his lips thinning and his arms crossing over his chest. Holly herself felt some pink tinging her cheeks, but she met his bright gaze frankly.

"It's not exactly...acceptable, out in public. I mean, some people look at it with a different connotation than what it is," she told him, unconsciously cradling her son closer as she spoke. The few times that she'd had to feed Grant in public, there had been stares and eye-rolls from strangers. Despite always sheltering the baby from sight, some people still looked at her like she was an installation at an art show, or a sideshow. Gawkers were undeterred, no matter how many harsh glares her husband had sent back to them, no matter how much she wished she did so herself. At first, she was embarrassed to have attracted attention in a store or at the diner in town, but by that point she was getting frustrated with it. Taking the higher road and ignoring it all was tiresome, sometimes. "It's looked at as something that should only be done in private, has been for a long time."

"Truly?" the god intoned. When Holly merely nodded, he actually tutted under his breath. Midgardians judged far too quickly on simple things, he'd discovered some time ago, and yet again, it was proven true. Quietly, he muttered, "Shameful."

A few moments of silent pondering about Asgard's differences, and then Holly swallowed.

"Still, I think I'm gonna keep the cover on."

Thor gave her an easy grin, the tension breaking. "Whatever you wish, of course."

Tipping a hand out towards him, Steve guided the conversation back to the original point. "You were saying?"

"Yes," the bigger fellow acknowledged. "After I speak with Selvig and visit Jane, I intend to seek out Doctor Banner."

Silence followed that pronouncement, two sets of eyebrows raising at his profession. The commander hummed low in his throat, inhaling deeply after several long moments.

"Bruce hasn't been seen since he left the helicarrier in Sokovia."

Thor merely looked him, expectation in his gaze. "I did not say I thought it would be simple, just that I would do it. Stark must have an idea of where to start, if not Fury."

"He might. So far, all we've had are rumors and a single near-miss," Steve admitted, catching the sets of eyebrows raising at him. Setting his elbows on the table, he leaned forward, his body language indicating that what he was imparting wasn't common knowledge. Tacit nods were given for him to continue, and so he did. "Supposedly he lost control somewhere near Nepal a few months back, but there was no evidence, one way or another. Personally, I believe he's maintained, and keeps that way by staying away."

"Makes sense," Holly cut in then, the cover about her shifting as she did in her seat. Flicking her gaze over the both of them, she pointed out, "It's not like employment on the team is conducive to calm. No matter what position you're in."

The god hummed low in his throat. "That is true. And what I would be bringing him into would be no less taxing. But I believe his help would be invaluable. I will begin my search in three or four days' time. After meeting with the others."

Noting his stipulation, the commander imparted, "Selvig took a teaching position with NYU this year, but he still makes it out on weekends, more often than not. He should be up tomorrow."

Thor nodded. "And Jane is still in London?"

About to reply, Steve was cut off by his wife's answer.

"Actually, she lives about ten minutes away from the base now," she reported, cataloging the astonishment in the fellow's eyes. That was one thing he had not expected; apparently, he wasn't at the base long enough to run into her that afternoon. Tilting her head to the right, she told him, "She's taken over the weekly operations of one of the labs. Took a bit of enticement to leave academia, but Maria managed to sweeten the pot enough to do it."

That had been something of a coup, one that Maria was intensely proud of pulling off, but Jane was incredibly willing to accommodate, given the circumstances. However, since Thor was unaware of the reasons why she had accepted, it was not stunning that he would have questions.

"I had thought that she would be employed far longer at the university than that," he stuttered slightly, a mixture of excitement and pleasure rising in him at the thought of Jane being near at hand. Holly's smile tightened somewhat, but he did not think anything of it. In fact, he attributed it to her rebuttal.

"I think she said her research grant was up, and they weren't willing to renew it. Unlike Selvig, she didn't want to fall back into 'adjunct hell.'"

The god's expression darkened accordingly, though some brightness remained in his eyes. "Sounds like a terrifying place."

"According to a few professors I've talked with, it is," she retorted with a grin, one that her husband shared with her. All too soon, it melted away, replaced by a frown and a sharp gasp. At once, the god's joking demeanor dropped.

"Are you well?"

Steve snorted at that, well aware of what had caused her to gasp, and she commiserated with a grunt of her own.

"Sorry, he's just a gummy-mouthed milk monster sometimes," she said, another flush of pink in her face, even as she giggled to herself. Pulling a bit at the collar of the cover, she looked beneath it to the baby still feasting below. "Aren't you, sweetie?"

Obviously, Grant had no response for her, and was more than satisfied with continuing as he had, regardless of the discomfort it could cause. From there, the conversation devolved into approximate times both scientists would be at the base, and what Fury would be likely to say when he finally called upon him. Soon enough, the baby had his fill of dinner, the cover pulled off after everything was situated and tucked away. Rocking him slightly, the young woman caught the glances the god was giving the little on occasion, and she reached a decision.

"Would you like to hold him for a bit?" Holly offered, holding the baby out towards Thor. The pat-down she'd given the child had gone well, and he seemed at ease; he did not wish to take the child away if he was content where he was. Spying his hesitation, she sought to assuage him. "He's always a bit snuggly after eating, so he won't squirm too much."

A enchanted look spread over Thor's face, the lines and cares of it buffed away as he nodded.

"Yes," he stated, allowing the young woman to situate her child in his arms. The little fellow, true to her word, nestled into his hold, his eyes half-lidded and the softness of his clothing cushioning him against the chest plating. Marveling at the tiny creature in his hold, at the child his friend had had a hand in creating, he felt something in his own chest tighten and loosen simultaneously. Rising from his sat, he unconsciously started to rock the small boy, gifting the parents with a smile. "I shall take him into the other room, if you don't mind."

"No, go ahead," Holly bade him, as she and Steve attended to tidying up after their repast. Permission given, the god took Grant out of the room, his deep voice humming a tune to him as he went. Watching him go, she cast a fast glance at her husband as they gathered up the dishes. Quietly, she murmured, "He's got a lot on his plate, huh?"

"Yeah, he does, more than I would take on by myself," Steve concurred, taking the plates he'd gathered to the sink. Filling up the basins with water, he looked over his shoulder, ruefulness twisting his grin. "He's always been about doing impossible things, though."

She sidled up beside him, resting her hip against the counter. Shaking her head, she let out a soft sigh.

"I hope he can catch a break. He's a nice guy...god, whatever."

Blue eyes darted from the sink to her, glimmering mischievously. "Got a soft spot for him, doll?"

Blowing a piece of hair out of her eyes, she pretended to give the matter thought. Her own gaze shimmered with humor as she tapped a finger against her chin.

"Well, I do have a thing for blonds who try to work for the betterment of others," she intoned, gravity lent to her words. His answering smirk was softened when she came up to his side, a smacking kiss pressed to his cheek as he began to wash the dishes. Soon enough, with their son being watched over, she was taking up the task of drying beside him. That lasted a few minutes, until she paused her efforts, head half-cocked and her ear turned towards the living room. Raising an eyebrow at her, the answer hit Steve just as she spoke again. "It's gotten quiet in there. I'm gonna go check on them."

Humming his agreement, he swished his hands in the water. "I'll be right behind you in a minute."

Squeezing his bicep briefly, Holly turned and tossed the towel onto the counter, exiting the room with some haste. However, the living room was empty when she came upon it, her heart beginning to patter harder in her chest. A rumbling voice floated down the stairwell after a few seconds, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she stumbled in that direction. The voice came from the nursery, the low creak of the rocking chair underscoring it. The door was open, and she stopped there, leaning against the doorjamb as Thor held Grant close, his large frame barely fitting in the chair as he rocked him and went on telling his story.

"And then, do you know what your father did? I shall tell you: he ran out, shield soaring high and knocking all foes to the ground to cover my blunder," he conveyed to the young one, a finger twitching the sleeve of his light green romper. Grant's eyes were focused on him, his little hands raising up and thumping down as the god spun the tale of his father's antics in battle. The pacifier in the baby's mouth bobbed as the bigger fellow tempered his story, now mindful of the newest presence at the doorway. "Under a veil of fire and metal, he protected even me, though I would have managed had he not done so."

He flashed a glance to the young woman in the door, lifting his shoulder minutely before getting up from the chair. Crossing the room, he set the baby down in his crib, taking up the stuffed lamb from the corner and bobbing it before the child's face. He relinquished the toy when the little one snatched at it, his grin turning wistful as he braced his palms on the rail.

"You have quite the hero for a father, young Grant," he asserted softly. Taking a deep breath, he turned his gaze onto the babe's mother, true regret surfacing when he addressed her. "I apologize for missing your wedding, and also for being unable to celebrate the birth of this little one."

Holly blinked; she certainly hadn't expected that. Nor did she think he needed to do so.

"It's alright. You had important things to do," she said, repeating what Steve had told her over a year ago. After all, from what she had gather prior to and during that evening, he definitely had greater things to attend to. From his position by the crib, she caught the grimace he directed at the far wall, the minute shake of his head following.

"At times, I wonder if that is true," he mumbled, one hand clasping over his wrist. Stiffening his spine, he swallowed before looking at her again. Nodding to the child in the crib, he said, "I wish to give him something. Hold a moment."

At that, he began to work off one of his bracers, the leather giving way after a moment or two. Deftly, he reached within the guard, feeling along the side. Charms and other such had been sewn into each piece of his armor, as had been done for each warrior of Asgard. Finding the one he wished to part with, he tugged at it, pulling it out with little difficulty.

"It's not much, but it is a great symbol of Asgard," he said, holding it out to the brunette woman. Opening her palm, she allowed him to drop it in her grip. The skin-warmed metal sat there, molded into the shape of three interconnecting triangles. Miniscule runes had been engraved along the sides of each, and the tiny thing seemed to radiate power.

"What is it?" she wondered, entranced by the charm and running a finger over it.

"It's an Odin's Knot, though in this form, I have been told it is called a valknut, or triceps," he explained. Glancing down into the crib, he met the gaze of the babe, and sighed. "He may have it, for protection and in memory of me."

Touched by his gesture and his kindness, Holly's hand closed around the metalwork.

"Thank you, on his behalf," she told him, earning a small grin in response. Tilting her head, she looked at him for a moment, chewing the inside of her lip as she considered something. Just as he was about to inquire what it was, she asked him, "Would you like to stay here for tonight?"

Thor blinked, taken aback by her offer. Folding his hands, he bowed his head.

"I do not wish to impose upon you," he said, unwilling to put her out if it was unnecessary. Dipping his chin, he continued, "I understand there are some quarters for guests at the base."

"It wouldn't be an imposition," Holly corrected his supposition, gentling it with a grin. "I like opening my home to friends. And if you don't mind staying in a house with a newborn, you're welcome to do so."

Impressed by her words, Thor could do nothing but accept them. "Then, if it is all right with you, I will stay. Thank you."

With that decided, the god inhaled deeply, expressing a wish to sit on his own for a moment. As he passed her, he patted her shoulder, the bigger fellow giving her a final, friendly smile as he left. His lumbering steps in the hall and down the stairs echoed up to her, but she was occupied with looking at the charm in her hand. After swiping the pad of her finger over it once more, she went and placed it on the dresser, thinking that a place could be found for it later. Going over to the crib, she rested her elbows upon it, looking down at her son as he waggled his toy, legs kicking and little grunts of satisfaction muffled by his pacifier. As she looked upon her boy, she noted the renewed presence of Steve stepping up behind her, his arms wrapping around her and his body molding along hers. In hushed tone, he thanked her as well for letting Thor stay, for welcoming him back as she had. His chin came to rest on her shoulder, cheek pressing against her hair, and she let out a breath of contentment.

"Out of curiosity, does Thor snore? He looks like a snorer," she whispered to her husband, unwilling to take a chance against the god having hearing on par with Steve's. Snorting lightly, he shot her a look when she glanced up, one that all but confirmed her question. Still, he did give her a verbal response as well.

"Oh, believe me, he does. It was so bad, we had to ban him from napping on the quinjet except in extreme cases."

Absorbing that information, Holly nodded once, pivoting away from the crib and leaving her husband's arms.

"...He's sleeping in the downstairs room," she told him as she went to the door. At first she had thought to set up the futon in the office, but if what Steve said was true, she couldn't risk it. Not with her son's bedroom being right next door, and with them down the hall. Catching his suppressed smile and eyes rolling up to the ceiling, she let a teasing tone invade her voice. "I like your friend, but not that much."

"Wise decision, doll," Steve replied, shooting her a wink before turning his attention onto their boy, who was crowing a little louder now. Smirking, she left him to the task of checking up on the little guy's well-being. Going down the stairs, she paused on the landing, watching as Thor settled back into the couch. The television had been turned on, and some inane comedy was onscreen. He sat up straight, his shoulders bobbing in silent chuckles as he watched, lost in something that could take him out of his concerns for a time. Sighing under her breath, she continued on her way, inwardly hoping that his plans for the future would not go awry.

 **xXxXxXx**

The following afternoon found Steve neck-deep in paperwork, a hand working through his hair in frustration. If there was one thing he truly missed about being the field leader, it was having to pass on the reports to someone else. Now, he was the someone else looking over it all, and between Bucky's chicken scratch and Wanda's looping tangents, he felt about ready to toss it all. Not only that, he had received some important emails from Fury, asking if a conference could be had in the near future on the helicarrier. Groaning to himself, he almost did not notice the presence standing just outside his door. Out the corner of his eye, he caught the hand rising to tap against the glass, and he turned to look. Thor was there, back from his own conferences that morning (adjusting his borrowed clothing; the shirt Steve had let him borrow was alright, but the pants were a touch too short, so he kept the ones he'd brought with on). His expression seemed grim, though he did manage a small smile in greeting. Waving him into the room, Steve's brow furrowed in question as he came in, the heavy air about his friend thick as he approached. Thor sat down, his weight dropping heavily in the visitor's chair on the other side of the desk. The troubled look on his face did not abate, and Steve immediately thumbed his monitor off on his computer. He could get in touch with Fury and Hill later on.

"How did things go?" he prompted his friend, continuing to watch him closely. Thor chanced a look at him, clearing his throat and sitting up straighter.

"Selvig is willing to lend aid in whatever way he can," he confessed easily enough. It was as he had hoped, in that his friend would not hesitate to answer his call. However, it was not Selvig that had caused him such discomfort, or distress. Swallowing hard, he went on, "Jane...she will help, too, but...I fear that so much time apart has driven her from me. Not from my causes, but...I have lost her. She would rather we 'just be friends' for the time being."

His heart thumped painfully as he thought back on the confrontation that had ended mere minutes ago. To see her again, in her element in the laboratory that she had claimed, all flashing eyes and bright intelligence as she directed her fellows to study the fluctuations that had been picked up the day beforehand, had filled him with such joy, but when she spotted him, he could see that it was not returned. Not in full, as it had in the past. She revealed why, soon enough. Too much time had gone by, too many days and hours spent waiting for him, fearing for him and receiving no word one way or another. Their last good-bye, she had told him, was meant to be the final one of them together. From there on out, she would have no expectations of him, save for that she would continue to work alongside him when it was needed. It may have seemed heartless, but he had detected the break in the back of her irises, the jagged cuts unknowingly left on her soul each time he'd left her behind. At the time, he could only accede to her request numbly, but now, sitting before his friend with deep sympathy directed at him, he struggled to breathe, to press down on the ache that was piercing him. It was a pain he had felt in the past, having wooed others before Jane, but this felt...more poignant, deeper than the ones in the past.

Coughing once, he rested his elbows on his knees. "It's odd, to see her and feel for her, but be unable to..."

Blue eyes flashed with brokenness, and it cut the commander to the quick. A sharp twist registered in Steve's gut, and he grimaced, lacing his fingers together atop the desk. A minute or two passed with the two men silently stewing it what was presented, and then the commander raked a hand through his hair, skewing the strands. Cautiously, words formed on his tongue, dropping without hindrance.

"I understand. To a point," he said, looking down at his hands at the truth spilled from him. "Someone I once cared for, I missed the chance to be with her for reasons I thought were good at the time. For things that needed to be done. And when I saw her again, I realized how much I missed out on, how much we both lost, and there was nothing I could do to fix it. So, I do know a little about how you feel."

Thor's focus had not wavered since he began his tale, and his mask of stoicism had not faded in the least by the time he had finished. However, he could see, in his eyes, that his words had hit their mark, that his pain was not something he alone bore. The corners of his mouth curled up a fraction, and he was relieved when the god did the same, albeit for a shorter time than her. Tipping his head to one side, the bigger fellow sighed.

"And now you have your Holly."

Steve dipped his chin, acknowledging the point. "Yeah, I got lucky. Very lucky. So I do what I can so I don't have to make choices like I made in the past, now. So I don't lose her, too."

Thor sat back in his chair. "Or your son."

"Or him. Definitely not either of them." Steve let the matter settle then, another silence descending for several beats. Soon enough, he stiffened in his seat, rubbing a thumb against the surface of his desk. "Gonna go strike out for Banner soon?"

Taking the diversion as it was offered, Thor inhaled sharply. "Yes, I intend to leave by week's end. I cannot guarantee the venture will be short. If it ends up taking a long while, I hope that..."

He trailed off then, his tongue stilled as he glanced around his surroundings. Though he had enjoyed some aspects of his return, he was not certain that things would remain as they had. His venture was liable to become dicey and dangerous, very swiftly, and he did not wish to have scorn and derision heaped upon the others were matters to come to light. At once, Steve shook his head, his next words dispelling his doubts.

"You're always welcome here, Thor," he said, earnestness shining through. Gratefulness lit upon the god's features, and he offered his hand to him.

"Thank you, friend," he intoned, shaking the commander's hand, silently promising himself to never allow Steve to regret the offer he'd extended, no matter how far he roamed or what he did in the future.

* * *

 **A/N:**...And then there's Thor. I have seriously been missing him in the MCU, and I am glad that there will be another film. Not only that, one that includes good ol' Dr. Banner (who we may or may not see again later on in this fic). So we get a taste of what is to come in Ragnarok. At least, the preliminary plans that Thor wishes to execute before that whole mess goes down.

As advanced as Asgard is in several respects, my headcanon is that in some areas, they have stuck to older traditions, due to their thought processes and experiences being vastly different from Earth's. I actually sat down and thought about how they might look at public breastfeeding; regardless of the views on it here, I think that there, it just is, and they don't even pay attention to it.

Also, I hoped this lived up to the hashtag of #ThorsNot Stupid. All told, he is intelligent; actually, everybody involved with the Avengers kinda has to be just to survive. And I—sort of—addressed the Jane Foster/Natalie Portman controversy, in that she's still around, but she may not be Thor's romantic interest any longer. Marvel has been letting that ship slowly sink for awhile, so I felt it should at least be given some sort of attention.

Guys, it has been such a full week for me. My second nephew was born on Thursday, I have been working for eight days straight, and then it was my birthday as well a few days ago. So consequently, I did not get this up when I planned to. Life, right? Also, next week's chapter is most likely going to be late as well. I'm going to go visit my newborn nephew for a couple of days, so that may cause delays. Again, thank you all for your patience in regards to my posting. I'm glad to see you're all sticking around despite the weirdness!

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any pop culture references made in the text.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	7. Chapter 7

As promised, Thor had departed from the base several days after his arrival, intent on discovering the whereabouts of Bruce Banner. The god left with a simple pack, money and documents included to aid him in traveling between countries, and Jane and he were able to work up enough of a rapport for her to hand over some of the clothing she'd acquired for him over the last few years, tepid smiles exchanged with their farewells. With promises to alert the team if he found the wayward doctor, his last scheduled stop—the Avengers Tower, where Tony disclosed his theories about Bruce's possible residence under extreme security—left after a day or two. Much like the counterpart he was searching for, he disappeared, with no word coming from him one way or another. For his part, Steve wished him all the luck in the world. After a year and a half of few answers and disintegrating chances, he deserved to have something go right.

Still, his mission was his own, and he would see it through, one way or another. Until then, the team, and Steve could only proceed as usual. Their own missions and hard work were on the table, detains to make and the world to protect as ever.

Well, up to a point. Sometimes, there weren't any missions or reports to put in, and it freed up the schedule somewhat. A few weeks on, that was the case, and as far as Steve was concerned, he was wishing it was not so. Or, at least, he was wishing that the conversation that precipitated the dearth in his schedule had not gotten him into the strait he found himself in.

" _Come on, it'll be fun," Holly had said a couple weeks back, trying her hardest to coax him into agreement. It had been several minutes since she'd first posed the idea, but he was no more inclined to it than he had been when she first broached the subject._

" _It'll be cheesy, dear," Steve retorted, not even looking up from his sketchpad. Off of work for the day, and with Grant reclining in his bouncer at his feet, he had not expected the conversation to take the turn it had. However, he supposed it would be inevitable. After all, it was the beginning of October, and time was of the essence for the subject matter in question. Still, he really wasn't having any of it._

" _So? That's the appeal," she replied, perching next to him on the couch. The television show she'd selected earlier was muted, her case needing to be made without additional distractions. Tapping his shoulder, she continued, "Besides, at least we'll be characters that you knew before going into the ice."_

 _That time he did meet her gaze, his eyebrow inclining slightly. "Themed Halloween costumes, though?"_

 _Tutting under her breath, she tilted her head and shrugged. "I could call Tony, have him pick for you again."_

 _Steve's expression flattened significantly. "No, thank you."_

 _She smirked a little at that. Never again would he surrender costume autonomy to Stark, and she'd banked on it._

" _You can channel your inner Ray Bolger," she stated, tiptoeing her fingers up his arm, drawing his gaze away from the sketchpad again. Twitching the collar of his shirt to make it lie right, she professed easily, "I always did like the Scarecrow the best."_

" _Oh, yeah?" he asked, the corner of his mouth curling and drawing fully abandoned then._

" _Yeah," she breathed, scooting closer to him. And she was being honest; she always thought the Scarecrow was the most interesting of the bunch, and had done since she'd first watched the movie, all those years ago. Poking Steve's arm, she could not help but guess, "And I bet you dug Dorothy, back in the day."_

 _He looked away then, chewing the inside of his lip. "Hmm."_

 _Spying the tinge of pink in his cheeks, she smiled broadly and laughed outright. "You so did! You totally liked Judy Garland, didn't you?"_

 _Unable to deny it, he couldn't stop himself from shrugging._

" _She was pretty, talented, and seemed sweet in her pictures. What wasn't to like?"_

 _Clicking her tongue, Holly murmured, "Wow, Minnesota girls are right up your alley, huh?"_

" _Some of them are," he replied, looking at her with fondness lining his irises. For a long moment, they maintained their focus upon one another, neither relenting. Eventually, Steve deflated a little, canting his head and giving up the fight. "Fine, I'll do it."_

 _With a joyful giggle, she wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him a kiss in thanks and hugging him. Accepting her embrace, he shook his head and smirk. If it made her happy to dress up as she wanted, he supposed it would be no real hardship. It would only be for one evening, after all._

" _Thank you," she murmured in his ear, another peck dropped on his cheek before she pulled away. "It'll be worth it, I promise."_

 _Grant squawked in his seat then, demanding his parents' attention, his little fists thumping down as his seat rocked. Before Holly could slide off the couch and retrieve him, she was stopped by her husband's grip on her knee. Raising her eyebrows at him, he cleared his throat and pointed at her carefully._

" _I'm holding you to that," he said calmly, watching the glimmer in her dark eyes grow even as she smirked and slid away, intent on retrieving the baby._

Which was why he found himself at his wife's mercy the Saturday prior to the holiday, sitting on the closed toilet of their bathroom and squirming under her scrutiny.

"Hold still," she scolded him lightly, tapping his shoulder with her free hand. Cupping his chin with the other, she tilted it up, getting more light on his face. Behind him, the lid of the tank was littered with make-up, both purchased for his costume she'd found and some of Holly's own mixed in. She didn't wear it often, but she had enough to work with that evening. Since she was the one who wanted to go whole-hog on the venture, he had rightfully (in his opinion) enlisted her aid in applying the necessary make-up for his part. For the most part, it was going decently, but she kept insisting on altering the drawn-on stitches or the shading on his nose every few moments. For not being particularly artistically inclined, she was certainly doing a decent job of it—when he could see around her into the mirror above the sinks. Reaching behind him, she fetched up the instruction sheet, peering at it for a few seconds and dropping it onto his lap for later reference. Grabbing up one of the tubes and an applicator, she squinted down at him, dabbing a little more of the makeup on. Having already endured the ordeal for the last several minutes, he was on his last legs of patience. Shrugging back a little, he blinked as she rolled her eyes. "Geez, you'd think that you'd have less trouble with the process, Mr. USO Tour."

That earned her a sour look, one of many that merely had her shaking her head and continuing with her work.

"Doing it every night did not mean I liked it," he pointed out, letting her blend the dab into the mass already accumulating on his nose. Granted, the stuff they were using right now was much lighter (and likely safer) on his face, but it wasn't exactly something he was itching to have spread all over his skin all the time. Especially when the foundation caked or flaked off. "Still don't."

"Really? Couldn't tell," she snarked back, overemphasizing the sarcastic tone. Snickering to herself, she tucked her lips between her teeth as she made another swipe at his face. She was trying to get the nose the right shade without going too dark, and it did require some concentration. Sighing, she continued, "That's too bad. Because if you think about it, it's like art for your face."

"Huh," Steve muttered, some of the irritation bleeding away as he considered the point. Tapping a thumb against his jeans, he stated, "Maybe if I thought of it that way, it would've gone a lot smoother back in the day."

Holly chuckled a little at that. "What did you think of it as?"

"Face and eye torture," he deadpanned, closing his eyes just as she aimed the setting spray at him. Flinching with each spritz, he relaxed when he heard it being set down. Opening his eyes, he narrowed in on the pencil in Holly's hand. Her dark eyes seemed to gleam mischievously as she held up the eyeliner, waving it back and forth. A frown came to his lips, and he canted his head in denial. "No, none of that. I just wanted a little help."

Her playful smirk only grew, and she edged forward just a bit. It was enough for his hand to shoot out, catching her wrist to stop her. The other rose, his finger extending and shaking.

"Put any more on me, and I promise I will find a way to pay you back in full."

"Okay, okay," she responded, tucking the tool behind her ear at that moment and raising her palms in surrender. Stepping out of the way, she let him take a look at her handiwork in the mirror. All told, she hadn't done a bad job; granted, she was not on a par with the ladies who had helped him out on his tour and with the small films he'd been in, but the effort was clear. Darkened nose, false stitches drawn along his cheek and above his eye, and the corners of his mouth had the sewn look penciled in. Definitely not bad, he mused silently. Glancing up at Holly's concerned look, he hooked her a thumbs-up in the mirror, his approval evident. Dipping her chin and smiling, she took up the eyeliner again, gesturing at him with it. "Well, just because you're having none of it, doesn't mean I'm not."

Flapping her hands, she shooed him out of the bathroom, imploring him to see to the set-up downstairs for a little while. Giving her the space to get ready, he did as she asked. Instead of attending the major bash that was put on for the agents at the base, the top brass elected to go to their own small gathering, to be hosted at the commander's house. It was a decision they took in stride, and in all honesty, Holly fell into it with gusto. She was all for a private, small gathering with friends, as opposed to the big blow-outs that happened on Stark's dime, and was eager to get started. A couple of times, he'd caught her eyeing up themed items on her phone or computer, his opinion asked when she realized he'd discovered her searches. The end result reflected that enthusiasm, with fake webbing in the corners, orange and black streamers strewn about, and themed knick-knacks decking out the bookcases. The record player had a stack of discount records she'd ordered, ready to be changed in and out for the evening, electronic candles also around the room ready to be turned on.

Passing through to the kitchen, he checked over the list of things yet to do before the others showed up. It appeared that food placement needed to happen, and the cooler of chilling drinks should be brought in from the garage. Taking care of all of that, he peered at his watch, forty-five minutes left until showtime. Chewing his lip, he made his way through the lower levels of the house once more, setting things to rights or artfully moving things out of sight (closing the new curtain that covered the laundry area definitely had to happen, what with the load that still had yet to be washed down there). Soon enough, he was treading back up to the bedroom, now devoid of his wife's presence. His costume was spread out on the bed for him, and he blew a sigh out of his nose as he meandered over to put it on. The patched trousers and shirt weren't all that difficult to shrug on, careful as he had to be of the make-up on his face. No, he struggled with the headpiece, trying to get it to sit straight and not mar anything else. As well as that, the attached hat seemed to have a mind of its own, but he eventually got it to sit right. The fake straw was tucked in on the flap in front of his stomach, at the wrists and the tops of his boots—he outright refused to wear the ones provided, claiming that if he was going to be stuck in the costume, he'd at least be stuck in footwear that fit him properly. Checking the full effect in the mirror, he snickered at his appearance. He thought he looked too imposing to be taken seriously as the Scarecrow, but it was what it was. He'd make the best of it, and with that resolution in mind, he went off to find Holly and Grant.

The nursery door was open, giving away their location easily as her voice drifted out of it. Striding up to the jamb, he froze in the doorway, his bright gaze trailing over her get-up. Occupied with their son, she didn't notice him at first, which afforded him a few moments to get his fill of staring. Her own make-up was less intense than his, from what he could see, and her braids were tied off with binders in place of ribbons, but he still liked the effect. Instead of getting a knock-off pinafore and shoes combination like he'd seen advertised on the costuming websites, she'd gone through a different channel. Her dress was an actual dress, made from good material and definitely lacking in puffy sleeves. The skirt ended just above the knees, wherein white stockings extended down into the silver shoes she'd had to wear for Sarah's wedding. That was what he couldn't look away from, even when she finally noticed him standing there, her cheeks pinking and a giggle tearing out of her. After clearing her throat, she eventually jarred him out of his reverie, a sheepish grin on his lips.

"Nicely done, Miss Gale," he complimented her, eyes still lingering on her legs for a few moments.

"Same to you, Scarecrow," she returned, coming up and twitching the fringes of the headpiece. After adjusting it to lie right, she grinned up at him again, her red-painted lips all the more enticing. Before he could even think to act on the thrum that rushed through his veins, she turned back to the crib, picking up Grant and showing him off to his father. "Look at our little Cowardly Lion. Isn't he adorable?"

That, he could not disagree with; the little lion costume she found for the baby was precious. With his little face peeping out from where the mouth should have been, the entirety of it looked more stuffed-animal like than anything from the film. And that was perfectly alright in his book.

Taking their boy from her, Steve grinned. "That he is. Well, at least we make up some of the outfit. Too bad we couldn't find a Tin Man, huh?"

Fixing the tail on her son's costume, she darted a fast look to her husband. "Who says I didn't?"

The impishness in her tone nagged at him, and he narrowed his eyes at her.

"...What did you do?" he asked after a couple of seconds. The corners of her mouth turned up, and the flush in her face deepened, but she did not say a word. Running through the possibilities in his own mind, he stuttered, "Who...no."

The smile broadened, and mischief streaked through her irises. "Oh, yes."

"There's no way he agreed to it," he refuted, quirking his brow at her.

She shrugged, tugging on the end of one of her braids. "I may have had some help. Whether it comes from the good witch or the bad witch remains to be seen. Natasha was still making her choice, last time we discussed it."

Steve closed his eyes, inhaling exhaling sharply as he bounced the baby in his arms.

"It's a good thing we're having a party here this year," he grumbled aloud, imagining just how it would look. Scoffing to himself, he mumbled, "I think Bucky would actually explode if he had to parade around the base like that."

"Hey, I can be merciful."

Steve was unsure how true that could be, once everyone began to arrive for the party several minutes later. Eyebrows rose high as he realized, as each member of his team filed in, that the theme extended beyond all that Holly had mentioned. It had seemed that they all had joined in with her suggestion, following orders as they had been given. Sam filed in with Kay, the couple enlisted to dress as the aunt and uncle of the heroine in gingham and farmer drab. Scott looked proud in his suit, an emerald green pin attached to his lapel proclaiming him as the titular wizard. Maria, having taken the evening off, arrived as a nondescript Munchkin, refusing to represent any particular guilds or leagues. Holly's coworker Todd (who appeared to be pleased as punch to have merited an invite) was a citizen of Oz, decked and green and playfully salute the Wizard as he joined them all. As it turned out, Natasha had chosen to be the Good Witch of the North, and like Holly, she had chosen to moderately update her costume to be less frilly—the low cut at the front of the pink gown was definitely one. Sadly, Tony, Rhodey, and Thor were unable to attend, but warm wishes were sent in their absence (though Stark had offered to highjack the drone assigned to the baby and make it whirl like a bastardized twister). And, true to the commander's conjectures, Bucky entered the house, silver paint smeared over his face, his own metal arm exposed and matching the rest of his body swathed in glinting silver fabric. The spout on his head was slightly tilted, and the grimace on his face seemed to be permanently etched there.

Accepting a beer from his friend once he came into the kitchen, Bucky grumbled, "I'm sorry, Steve, but after today, I don't know if we can be friends anymore."

"Yes, this is what derails a ninety-year friendship: Halloween costumes," Sam chortled into his cup, adjusting his hat and counting his blessings. Being the uncle appeared to have its perks, despite having to wear overalls. The other two men halfheartedly glared at him, before Steve blew out a snort.

"Don't look at me, we're in the same boat here," he said, gesturing to his own costume. He had hardly come away unscathed himself; his face alone was a testament to that. Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, back in the direction his wife and Natasha had gone, he muttered, "I didn't have a clue that those two were working together on this."

It was Bucky's turn to snort. "Well, that's not surprising. You've never really had a clue when it comes to women."

The blond man inclined an eyebrow. "Had enough of one to manage getting married without any outside help, thank you."

"I maintain that was pure, dumb luck on your part." Bucky's lips quirked into a smirk, and Scott snorted into his cup to hide his laughter as he joined them.

"Hear, hear," Sam concurred, raising his cup and encouraging the others to join him in the mocking toast. Steve, of course, was not amused, his eyes rolling as he shook his head.

"Meanwhile, I never thought I'd ever see Natasha in a pink ballgown," Wilson pointed out, tipping his head back. "Didn't think she could pull that off."

"Better not let her hear you say that," Scott said as he grabbed a cup of punch from the cauldron. Rubbing at the center of his chest, he winced. "She's been practicing with that wand."

Bucky glanced over to the arch that led into the living room, a warm glint in his eye. "Yeah, it looks alright."

A loud scoff coursed out of the commander's mouth, the captain raising an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, please. You liked Glinda, even back then," Steve said, spilling that little tidbit of the past. As Bucky opened his mouth, he jumped in again, refusing to let him deny it. "I caught you eyeing her up when we saw it in the theater, don't even pretend."

Barnes raised his chin. "Two words for you: Billie Burke. I don't think any other explanation is needed. Besides, it's not like it mattered to you anyway, what with you practically drooling whenever Garland was onscreen."

"Shut up," was the apt retort, the other guys snickering around their cups and bottles. Pondering what was revealed for a few moments, Scott cleared his throat.

"Hey, did you ever meet her when you were filming your pictures?" he wondered, curious glances coasting over Rogers. A flush of red crawled up the blond man's neck, and he immediately shook his head.

"No, thank God. I was already embarrassed enough that I had to fake-jog in front of a moving screen all day; it would've been worse if I'd crossed paths with her afterward."

Barnes and Wilson shared a glance, before the Falcon piped up, "By the way, you think this is bad, wait 'til you see who got drafted into being—"

"The Wicked Witch? I already know: it's Wanda," Steve said, a marked lack of humor in his voice. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he went on, "She enjoys playing off her codename far too much."

Sam's gaze trailed away from him, fixing on the arch leading to the rest of the house."Actually, I was going to say the flying monkey."

Frowning, Steve turned and followed his gaze, his eyes widening and a look of shock decorating his features

"Oh, Jesus," he groaned in sympathy for the android, watching as the creature visibly squirmed and tugged at the collar of his get-up.

Bucky could barely hold in the laughter, and Scott was doubled over on the other side of the counter. "Bet the Vision regrets making a move on her now."

Wanda, all done up in green paint and black dress, whispered something into the Vision's ear, patting him once on the shoulder before disappearing again. The creature let out a deep sigh as he caught the others' stunned looks, his hands tugging at the apparatus strapped to his body.

"Is this what humiliation feels like?" the android wondered, staggering up to the men ringing around the punch cauldron. Glancing down at himself, at the embroidered vest and straps holding up the tail and wings, he grimaced. "Because I'm certain this is what it looks like."

"Depends," Bucky said, scratching at the paint along the curve of his jaw. "Do you wish that a hole would open up in the ground and swallow you right about now?"

The android blinked. "Yes."

"Then yes," was the chorus given around. The Vision nodded at that, his electric blue eyes snapping over to the commander. They narrowed into an actual glare, and Steve merely raised his hands in mock surrender.

"I swear, I thought it was just going to be Holly, the baby, and I," he said, absolutely truthful. He flicked his gaze over to the other participants of the party, from Sam to Bucky all the way across the room. Unbeknownst to him, the theme his wife had begged him to indulge in had become a party-wide thing, aided by the most duplicitous member of the team and done so carefully that he was not alerted until it was too late. Shaking his head, he muttered, "I didn't know it would come to this."

"Conspiracies abound, Commander," the creature stated obviously, emphasizing each word so that he would never forget them. "Some right within your own home."

Taking in his surroundings, the attire he and his friends all sported, he nodded sagely. "Well, I definitely know better for the future."

All of them commiserated with that, and with drinks in hand, they moved off to join the others in the living room. Maria was being introduced to the baby for the first time, a genuine smile stretching her mouth. Holly hovered at the edge as Wanda and Todd encircled them, sharing a look with Nat and chuckling under her breath.

"At least the Lion looks like he's having a good time," Barnes said, nudging Steve with his elbow.

"'Course he is, the little ham," he retorted, taking another swallow of his drink. Grant, even though he was just over three months old, was already soaking in all the attention that was paid to him. The little guy had no problem being passed from person to person, his brightening gaze always wide and his contented hums turning into pleased gurgles.

"That kid's gonna be trouble when he's older. In a good way," Bucky commented lightly, his grin becoming a little more genuine as the costumed baby was handed over from Maria to Auntie Nat. The Good Witch hoisted the three-month-old a little higher, her free hand dropping away so that her wand would not jab him. Little hands tugged at her locks, and the tiny smile he gave her went a long way to soothe any pain or irritation his grip was causing her. Shooting Steve a sideways glance, he smirked. "Wonder who he got that from?"

The commander rolled his eyes, before affixing his son with a fond look. "He's just naturally gifted, I suppose. Either way, I think we'll be able to keep him in line."

That promise for the future made, they stepped into the room. Music churned on the record player as the hours went by, the center of the room cleared for anybody who wanted to dance along. The baby was shuffled from one person to the next, sharing a dance with his mother before Uncle Bucky snatched him up, letting the kid tug on the hair that had come loose beneath the spout. Food and drink were indulged in, the atmosphere so relaxed in comparison to the typical nine-to-five chaos they seemingly endured (exceptions were obvious, with Holly and Todd concurring that filing data and transcripts was less intense that fieldwork). With another holiday free for them to take part in, the others were glad for the chance to simply be, and not be on display as well. Dusk had transformed into night just as the first snuffling crows came from the Cowardly Lion, less fear and more discomfort in his voice as the seconds ticked by.

"Okay, grumpy lion, we'll get you changed and into bed. Sound good?" Holly told the little guy, Grant's eyes falling shut even as he frowned. Rubbing his back, she brought him upstairs swiftly, shooting fast farewells to the last attendees. Given the passage of hours, with ten o'clock hovering ever-closer to eleven, the others took it as their cue to prepare to leave. With thanks traded and promises to be safe for the remainder of the night, Steve saw them all off, his mind already drifting in the direction his wife had gone. Performing the final lock-up and security checks for the night, he eventually made his way upstairs, just in time to kiss Grant good-night. With their son abed with little fuss, the married couple tiptoed silently down the hall, adjourning to their own room. At once, he disembarked for the en-suite bathroom, pulling off the headpiece and letting it drop as he went. She followed him in, going straight to her sink and fetching up make-up remover wipes from the drawers. Split between them, they began to scrub their faces clean.

"So, all in all, the night wasn't so bad, I think," Steve told Holly once the last of the drawn stitches had been swiped away. A triumphant gleam entered her eye, and she tapped him on the shoulder.

"I told you the themed costumes would be a good idea."

Her husband canted his head at that, a teasing lilt to his gaze. "Dunno. Still not entirely sold. Especially since I had to work to get all this off my face."

Holding up one of his dirtied wipes before dropping it in the trash, he showed her the extensive markings and smudges lacing it. Tilting her head to the left, she cupped a hand in the air.

"Be glad you weren't the Tin Man. Or the Wicked Witch, come to think of it," she said, the final bits of eye make-up cleared away. Her own wipes joined his, and she sighed. "Poor Wanda, all that green paint..."

Steve snorted audibly, shucking his shirt. "At least her green can come off, unlike others."

"Right," Holly muttered, bending to remove the silver shoes. Grateful as she was to get a second use out of them after Sarah's wedding, it was past time to take them off. From her vantage point, she glanced over at her husband, the swift glide of his gaze over her form making heat spread through her. It had been present throughout the evening, a warm undercurrent beneath the camaraderie and enjoyment. Smirking to herself, she slowly rose from her bend, pausing to twitch at the material on one of her stockings. Blue eyes narrowed in on her fingers, his progress in removing his own costume halted as she did so. Swinging up fully, she caught him darting his gaze away, private smiles on both their mouths even as he shucked the boots and pants. Traipsing over to the counter between their sinks, she hopped up onto it, swinging her legs as she untangled her braids.

"Want to hear something kinda cool?" she asked him, keeping her tone deliberately smooth. Off his confused nod, she continued, "There was a cut storyline for the movie that was rediscovered awhile ago. That Dorothy and Hunk were supposed to have a sort of romance, and the undertones were supposed to carry into Oz with the Scarecrow."

Steve hummed, tapping a thumb along the basin of his sink. "Well, that would explain why she says she'll miss him most of all at the end."

"And in the extended version of, 'If I Only Had A Brain' when he sang that perhaps he'd deserve her and be worthy of her," she included, to which his befuddlement became all the more apparent.

"What?" Realizing he'd never seen the extended scene, she quickly retrieved her phone from the pocket of her dress, pulling it up to show him. The bootlegged video, complete with Ray Bolger's vaudeville-inspired dancing and acrobatics, made him chuckle, and he shrugged when it ended. "Makes a lot more sense now."

Her concurrent nod was lost when his focused wandered again, back to her legs. Arching her eyebrows, she was about to speak when he cut her off.

"Surprised you went with the silver shoes," he said, dipping his chin to where they were resting on the floor. She inclined her head, picking at the hem of the dress.

"Thought I'd mix in some of the book canon, make it a little different."

"Nice touch," he replied, eyes drawing up again. Taking a few steps closer, he reached out, a finger trailing over her covered knee and shivers blooming in its wake. His baritone was pitched lower as he asked next, "What version did you pull the stockings from?"

Her smile took on a lusty air as she took his hand, tugging him to stand in the V of her legs.

"The version that says my Scarecrow really, really likes when I wear them," she told him, her knee rising and grazing his thigh as it went. A palm curled around it, hitching to sit around his waist, the other joining it soon after. The heat between them rose as he leaned nearer to her, sparks ignited from the smoldering coals of intimacy.

"Yeah, he does," he said, the words ghosting over her lips. Her arms linked around his shoulders then, pulling him in. His mouth claimed hers, innocence abandoned in the wake of desire. A slow swipe at the bottom lip, opening, and the tastes of one another were traded. Touches along bare skin drove them on, each reaching for more as they became nearly inseparable. All evening, he'd had his eye on her, and all evening, she'd been wanting him just as terribly. After three months of chaste actions, of striving towards repair of her body and finding balance as parents, they could not help but turn back to what they had together. A few times, they had reached, but had pulled back at the last moment. Now, now, it seemed that they could press on. Sensing this, Steve had to be certain before pressing his case.

"Are you sure?" he breathed, bracing his forehead against hers as he inhaled sharply. He wanted this, wanted her, so badly. However, he also knew that she might not truly want it, not with the pain and the healing freshly behind her. Swallowing hard, he murmured, "Because if you're not, we don't have to—"

The stocking-clad legs around his waist tightened, cutting off his words as she kept him close. Stopping was not on Holly's agenda, had never been since initiating the encounter. Three months had passed without the touch of her husband—all for good reason, of course. However, those reasons were no longer applicable to the situation, and she was of no mind to let it end there. Squeezing her thighs, her own moan mingled with his, palms coasting over his chest and up to cradle his head.

"Yes, yes," she whispered, a wolfish smile growing on his lips in an instant. Strong arms hoisted her off of the counter, carrying her into the bedroom and extending their own private party into the early hours.

 **xXxXxXx**

Eyelids snapped open, blinking against the sunlight filtering through the curtains, and Steve realized it was morning. More to the point, it was morning, he didn't have a stitch of clothing on, and he had overslept. Glancing over at the clock on the nightstand confirmed it, and he let out a sigh. He couldn't be terribly bothered by it. Not when he remembered exactly what had happened to make him sleep so late. A goofy grin blossomed on his lips and another sigh, one of immense satisfaction, spilled out of his nose. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he let his arms fall, thumping against the mattress. Holly's voice floated up through the floorboards, the little hums and snatches of conversation she had with Grant as she fed him mingling with the click of the heat flowing through the vents. Grinning to himself, he sat up, the sheets wrapped haphazardly around him falling down to his waist. Looking over the sides of the bed to the strewn articles of clothing on the floor, his grin turned a touch more feral as he recalled exactly how each had gotten to their current position. Particularly the stockings that were dropped on either side, rumpled and well-worn. Squaring his shoulders, he pulled off the sheets, making his way over to the dresser and sliding into clean sweatpants.

Making his way downstairs, he passed the leftover debris that were the Halloween decorations. Some pieces of the webbing were starting to come off the walls, as well as the leftover streamers. It barely registered in his mind as he went into the kitchen. What did register was the sight of his wife bottle-feeding Grant, her red flannel shirt swathed around her frame and her brown eyes flicking up as he entered the room. A small, pleased smile came to her lips, though she continued to feed the little guy. Steve's mouth curled up as he wandered over to the coffee maker, the carafe full and steaming. Pulling down two mugs, he assembled both their cups as she cooed to the baby, telling him how good he was during the party and speculating how the day was going to go. Finishing with his task, he joined them at the table, pulling a chair over so that he could sit next to his family. Resting his arm along the back of her chair, he took a sip of the coffee, catching the baby staring at him and admonishing him for his caffeine envy. ("He gets that from you," he accused Holly, who only rolled her eyes and drank from her own cup, refusing to comment.) With Grant finishing his bottle, his mother adjourned to the living room, to the playpen set up there. Steve's eyes slipped over her as she walked away, over the curtain of her hair falling loose and the red flannel she was sporting, a contented hum blown out his mouth as he sank back against his chair. Soon enough, she was returning, a shoulder resting against the wall as she looked at him. Her dark eyes reflected humor and something deeper as she dug into the breast pocket of the flannel. Fishing out her cell phone, she waved it in the air a little.

"Want to take a look at the photographic evidence, see if there's any outstanding moments from last night?" she asked him, sidling back to the table. His palm came up, sliding along her waist and heating through the thin material. Nodding down to the opened gallery app on the phone, she proffered it to him. "I was thinking that one or two could probably be used for the Christmas card this year."

Taking the phone from her, he smirked. "Well, it is just around the corner. We better take a look."

Grinning, she dropped back into her seat beside him, starting the show. One by one, they scrolled, with Holly pointing out one thing or another. Scott feigned fear in one as Wanda wagged a finger at him, and another had caught the Tin Man sneaking a kiss with the Good Witch of the North in the background as the Flying Monkey cast an flat look at the camera. The blackmail material was rampant, but it was all in good fun, and they both sported delighted grins at the group shot of the entire outfit, Grant held in the center by his parents, the rest of the family surrounding them. Once the last picture was looked over, Steve chanced a glance at Holly, clearing his throat.

"Maybe we should do themed costumes again next year," he ventured, his tone nonchalant. Meeting his eye, she let a slow smile bloom over her lips.

"I wouldn't be opposed," she remarked lightly, placing her phone on the table and shifting in her seat. A little grunt came out of her then, the soreness she'd been ignoring having gotten the better of her in that moment. Blue eyes darkened a fraction as he watched her, and pleasure welled up inside him when she shot him a wink. Waiting until she'd gotten comfortable in the chair, he announced that he would get a start on some breakfast for the two of them and got up. As he passed behind her, he paused, bending so that he could whisper directly into her ear.

"By the way, it was worth it," he told her, tucking back a strand of her hair and kissing her cheek. A stray shiver wracked her as he did so, and he could not help but smirk. A sense of victory hovered in the air, both of them savoring it as he kissed her again, breakfast being delayed for several minutes more after that.

* * *

 **A/N:** Halloween fluff, y'all. Couldn't resist. Can't you just picture them in Wizard of Oz-themed stuff? I can, haha! Also, a little shorter this time around, hope that's alright...

There really was a deleted story-line of Hunk and Dorothy having a romantic arc in the plot of the movie, and there really is an extended version of 'If I Only Had a Brain.' I recommend giving it a watch; I absolutely adore Ray Bolger as the Scarecrow, and he just shines there.

I managed to make it on time, everyone! Whoo! Also, met my baby nephew. Little guy is adorable, and he totally loves his mama (my sister). Such a sweetheart...

Next chapter we jump to November...should be interesting, I think. And if you want to know what happened with Steve and Holly's party of two in this chapter...head on over to my AO3. There's a one-shot entitled, "Boudoir Commando" that outlines that there. Only read if you're of proper age/maturity/etc.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any pop culture references made in the text ( _The Wizard of Oz_ , etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!

 **EDIT:** Did a new post for my Livejournal, with pics that inspired some looks for previous chapters as well as this one! It can be found under the name "phantomproducer", and it's the most recent entry. Check it out if you feel so inclined...


	8. Chapter 8

The Saturday following Halloween was meant to be calm. A day at home, a day spent catching up on everything put off during the week, a day wherein Holly and Steve could be together with their son.

In between catching up on paperwork and chores on their days off, Holly had gotten into the habit of reading to Grant, with Steve sitting in on the readings or taking over when she had no choice but to attend to other things. Their child seemed to immensely enjoy the sound of his parents' voices, delighted in the children's books his mother had been stocking up on, tiny fingers always reaching and snatching ineffectually at the pages. Steve theorized it was merely the bright colors calling out to him at that age, but Holly was insistent on the boy hearing stories regardless (studies aside, she told him that her parents had done so for her, and she would not deprive her son of the same). It could only do him good, she'd said, and her husband accepted it, sometimes taking the baby into his lap and holding him as she held up the book, pointing at words and pictures as Grant's wide gaze was riveted on her.

That morning found them on their bed, the baby boy in his father's grasp while his mother paged through a variation of _The Ugly Duckling_ tale. Breakfast had been finished only a few minutes beforehand, and the couple wanted to get in a few quiet moments with the little one before starting on the rest of the work for the day. Partway through, when she was gesturing at the gray-feathered "duckling" on the thickened pages, Steve's cellphone vibrated on the nightstand. Deftly leaning to grab it and still support his son, he tucked the device between his ear and his shoulder, his expression losing the contentment that had been there as the seconds ticked by.

"Nick, what is it?" he asked, his greeting all but ignored as the distant hum of a voice came over the line. Holly froze, the book lowering as she watched her husband's eyes become a shade or two darker. Seriousness flooded his form, and his jaw clenched as he listened to the field director talk. Cutting a glance at the digital clock on Holly's nightstand, his head bobbing in a slow nod. "Okay, okay, I'll get there as soon as I can."

Hanging up, he dropped the phone back on his table. After taking a deep breath, he reluctantly picked up Grant, holding him out to his mother until she gathered him into her arms. As soon as the little guy was in secure hands, he rose from the bed and plodded to the closet, his stance and form stiff as he began to gather up what he needed.

"You're going in," Holly exclaimed, no question whatsoever in the sentence. Still, Steve dipped his chin, opening up his traveling bag and inspecting the contents.

"You know the mission the team's on right now, the one that was supposed to be a milk run?" he stated, glancing over his shoulder at her. He barely waited for her nod; when the team left the base, it was always common knowledge. Details were always few and far between, even for someone married to a person of the inner circle (which pissed her coworkers off to no end when she didn't have any juicy details to contribute to the gossip pool), but he had intimated that the most recent call out was supposed to be simple. They'd left before dawn, on a simple in-and-out mission of detainment and data gathering. Frowning, he explained, "Turns out, it's more than that. I've got to catch a jet to the helicarrier to monitor the situation more closely. If it gets any worse, then..."

He let the sentence trail, knowing full well his wife would easily connect the dots on the unspoken. Spying the growing grimace and the swift nod, he knew she understood.

"Got in a few good months before this happened," she muttered, the book she'd been reading from snapping shut in her hand. The crack of the covers rang out in the room, and she tossed it to rest near the foot of the bed.

"Nothing's happened," he retorted, a tad sharply. The bare flinch his words caused was not lost on him, and he ground the heel of his palm against his forehead. Not wanting to upset his wife any further, he gentled his tone when he spoke again. "They haven't called Nomad."

She barely suppressed a wince at the mentioned code. If things got dire—like end of the world, invading armies dire—it was decided that the final call for last support, for last support from Steve himself, would be assigned. Up until that day, it had not been used. The teams, both of them, were entirely capable of handling missions without his physical presence. So far.

"Yet," she mumbled, unable to help herself. Steve shot her a fast look as he gripped his backpack's straps hard, and she held up a hand to stem the gathering steam she knew was forming in his mind. "I know, I know, it's important. Just preemptive concern. As always."

Coming back to the side of the bed, he fetched up his phone, a sideways glance flickering over her as he did so. It was more than mere concern, and he knew that all too well. However, he kept the comment building in his head to himself, instead grabbing up his keys and striding towards the door. His wife pattered quietly after him, following him downstairs and across into the kitchen. His jacket and shield had been gathered on the way through the living room, and she stood in the archway, watching as he pulled on the article. Grant gave a little crow, and Steve could not help but look at them both. The bittersweet wave crested in his irises, and he swallowed.

"Y'know, it was tough enough when I had to leave just you," he expressed in a low tone. His gaze raked over his wife, and then over his son. The disappointment and sadness rose again, and a slow breath crawled out of his mouth. "Now..."

It was one thing to stay late at the base, making call-outs and watching over from there. It was something else entirely to get close to the action once again. Holly honestly tried to soften her grimace into a wan smile, but she barely managed to get the corners to curve. Carefully shifting the baby's weight to one arm, she crossed through the room and pressed her hand to Steve's chest, over his heart.

"I know," she murmured, opposite the thumping against her palm. And she did understand the predicament he was in all too well. A light tap of her thumb brushed over his shirt, and she let her fingers fall away. Coughing once, she hoisted up the baby, holding the squirming child out to his father. "Alright, Granty, say bye-bye to Daddy."

Grant went easily into Steve's arms, another crow and hum bubbling out of the babe as the older man pressed his cheek against the side of his head.

"Love you, little guy," he murmured, holding the boy as tightly as he dared. His eyes closed briefly, his face creasing with all the weight and cares he could not verbalize. When he opened his eyes again, they landed directly on his wife, and one arm reached towards her. "C'mere."

At once, she closed the minute distance between them, her own arms wrapping around him as he held onto her shoulders. Her palm rose and rested against his where he was supporting their son.

"Love you, too," he whispered, pressing a kiss first into her hair, and then against the baby's cheek. Passing their son back into her arms, he blew out a harsh breath, clearing his throat and bending to grab his things. Fingers slid under his chin, turning his head so that she could kiss him soundly, all her love and concern communicated to him before they parted.

"Be careful," Holly told him as she stepped back, standing at attention and holding herself steady. Little eyes seemed to glance between her and his father, and Grant's face began to crumple. Steve gave them both once last look, gaze running over them from head to foot. The stoic mask of the leader he was slipped over his face, his emotions under tight rein as he shoulder his bag and looped the shield onto his arm. It took him exiting the house and the sound of the engine of the truck firing up before Grant fully vocalized his unhappiness. Gentle shushing sounds came out of Holly as she cradled her son closer, a soothing hand running up and down his back as she rocked him. Her hums morphed into a few sharp inhalations, and before she knew it, formed into words.

"I know, buddy, I know. I wish he didn't have to go, either. But...it's Daddy's job. It's not easy or perfect, but it's what he wants to do. He wants the world to be a safe and good place, more so than ever, now." Realistically, she knew his distress had nothing to do with his father leaving and going ever-closer to danger, that he didn't actually understand what was happening that morning, but a part of her felt that, given how hard he'd started crying...maybe he did. Holly, for her part, was unable to stem the flow once it started. For the most part, she had come to accept Steve's job as a part of their lives. (Accepted it, but there was no peace to be found there, not really. Nobody could really make peace with a profession that threatened a loved one's life daily, she surmised.) Even with it being altered to what it was now, it was no guarantee that he would remain out of the fight. In fact, she was counting on a bigger fray to come again. One always did, and she knew him too well to think that he could just ignore it and walk away. So much had been done for him, for the purpose of serving others, and he didn't feel like he could give that up. Not all the way.

Although, with priorities being what they are, she knew he was definitely appreciated and cherished the little world they had in their home.

"Still, even though he wants to be here, too, it can't always be that way." Holly bit her lip, her brain conjuring up an image of the future, of kneeling down before her son and telling him another version of the verbal tumble she was going through, of big blue eyes framed with sadness as he had to hear why his daddy had to go again. It made her throat constrict, but she would not cower or let it consume her. If that was to be the future, they would find a way to explain it to Grant, to let him know that Steve wasn't just doing it for himself, but for them, too. "It's the right thing to do, for him, and he needs to do it. Gotta admit, I admire that about him, even if it frustrates me at times. Scares me."

Her admission was left hanging in the air for several long moments, Grant's whimpers compacting it. She hadn't meant to spill out everything that was on her mind, hadn't meant to make her months-old son an unwitting witness to her verbal cascade. Still, once she'd started, she had been unable to stop. Sighing deeply, Holly supposed it was probably for the best to let it out then. After all, it could've built up more and more, and the end result for that, when it finally boiled over would not be as calm as what she'd vented then. Truly, she did not resent Steve for his job, or his duties; however, it did not take away how difficult it could be to accept it in the moment. The empty space left after talking was filled by her crooning to her boy, his cries pausing as a great gush ripped out of him. Easily guessing that was the result of what had truly been distressing him, she did a swift diaper check to confirm. Wrinkling her nose, there was nothing else for her to do than turn and take care of the new issue at hand.

"Let's get you changed, okay, honey?" she crooned to the little one, pecking his forehead once more and walking out of the kitchen, away from the back door. "Then, when we're done, you can help Mommy look over her short story and decide whether or not the villain deserves to be dropped in an oubliette at the end."

Resolutely stiffening her spine, she dipped her chin and set herself to salvaging the remainder of the day, with her son's aid.

 **xXxXxXx**

The code for Nomad was not called, but it had not stopped Steve from entering the last moments of the fray. Once arriving at the helicarrier, currently occupying airspace just outside of Toronto, he had spent another our or two convening with Fury on the deck, the older man wanting the fresh set of his eyes to look on the situation as well. As had been said, the mission was supposed to be relatively simply from the start, and had been, on the surface. It was only when reinforcements had swarmed in from nearby office buildings in the abandoned commercial lots on the outskirts of the city. With a pronounced grimace, the commander kept his demeanor stony as he observed, issuing forth an order or two on occasion for agents to set up a perimeter along the north and west sides, or to go in as back-up. With a comm in his ear, he also tapped into the team's line, collaborating with the new captain and adjusting plans accordingly to the call-outs. All things that Nick could have cared for himself, but he quickly understood what had happened. The field director had wanted to see the proof of the transition, to see how Rogers could handle himself away from the heart of the action. It annoyed and rankled, to say the least, but Steve had figured he could humor the other man. After all, he still was not pleased that he had forced the accepted position through, was not pleased how he had initially threatened walking away entirely. Some part of him knew that Fury could not resist putting him under the microscope, but he merely gritted his teeth and endured it. He was already there (definitely not by choice), and he would see it all through.

Eventually, there was enough of a lull in the madness, enough of the tension built in the carrier, that he could not take standing idly by. A command passed for another transport to be readied, and he left Fury at the helm to suit up, arm himself as he would inspect the final tremors of battle. Bucky had already given the call for clean-up as he boarded a quinjet, his armor and shield on as a preemptive measure. Due to the nearby civilian population of the city, he had elected to perform a jump and drop, diving out and parachuting from the craft within a few miles of the targeted building. Touching down only a few blocks away, he jogged fast towards the abandoned commercial lot that had been occupied. The clang of metal thumping and screams echoed in the air, though he easily surmised that it was not nearly as prevalent as it had been in the recent past. Two men were waiting along the outer perimeter of the fencing surrounding it, bracing themselves as a third tried to climb down and meet them. As they were close to an entryway, he had to wonder for a moment why they didn't simply walk out. A stray beam of orange light cut through the air, answering his question for him. Gritting his teeth, he ran right up to the trio, knocking them all flat before they could even comprehend what had happened. Guessing that they were the last of the bunch, as the sound of battle had abruptly stopped, he knelt beside the unconscious men, digging out restraints and securing them for arrest and detainment. Finished with his work, he shouldered his way through the gate that was only seven feet away from them, intent on finding his team.

The courtyard in front of the target was littered with bodies and vehicles, weapons and other articles strewn in the dying grass. The bite of the cold air nipped at him once he passed the flaming vehicles, stepping purposefully around the fallen and the knocked-out. The Vision, his golden cape flowing and his violet face showing no strain, was hauling one of the insurgents away with ease, a fellow built like a brick wall and about the same height as well. Nat stood off to one side with Scott, the pair of them checking each other over for injuries, thumbs hooking up when it was clear that both were well. Sam was in the air, final flybys being performed before connecting with the agents on the borders of the complex. The Scarlet Witch had one hand out, an aura projected from it towards a black-armored guy who was still squirming, the ring of scarlet in her irises unable to mask the frustration there. Bucky, slinging his rounded shield to rest on the magnetized harness on his back, rolled his eyes, winding up and socking the guy straight in the jaw. The fellow dropped, and Wanda let her aura vanish, a low breath blow out as they parted, her to sit on some steps and Barnes to rest against the handrail. Noting that they had all come through relatively unscathed, Rogers cleared his throat, alerting them all to his presence as he stepped forward.

"All told, not so bad," he said, nodding to the flaming vehicles and smoke billowing from the office building beyond. Grunts and breathy chuckles followed the statement, and he rolled his shoulders back.

"Sure, you can say that now..." Bucky muttered, shaking his head. Pushing away from the twisted banister he was resting against, the captain dipped his chin at the fenced-off area Steve had just come through. The insurgents he'd fought on the way in, stragglers would had tried a last-minute escape attempt, were immobilized, much like their other comrades were. Gesturing to all the unconscious and tied-up enemies on the ground, he facetiously apologized, "Sorry there isn't much left for ya."

The commander scoffed audibly, unhooking a few medicinal packs from his belt and passing them around to the rest of the team. "I'm not. I'm glad that this got locked down. Escalation is never a good thing in these situations. What did you find?"

Inhaling deeply, Barnes took it upon himself to lead the report. Atop the data mining (which Natasha and the Vision had engineered with hardly a hitch, it was noted), more mercenaries had joined in the fight than had been initially estimated. Some, they had determined due to insignia sewn onto their armor, were hired by Klaue's second, while others had no true allegiance. They were just along for the ride.

The Black Widow raised her chin, her features hard in the afternoon light. "It was a set-up, drawing us in and trying to destroy us when others couldn't. Trying to fill Rumlow's shoes, it seems."

Barnes shot Steve a look, and a shit-eating smirk. "Not doin' so well without newspapers and sheer willpower."

Despite himself, Rogers couldn't help his snicker in response. Soon, however, he let it pass, getting right back to business. "Not everyone can do it. What else?"

There was little else to report, as the situation had started to get out of hand. It had seemed that the agents directed by Steve's command had arrived just in time, circumventing further escapes well beyond the limits of the compound (as the crackling comms in their ears gave credence to, since they were still shutting down escapees). However, he noticed Lang fidgeting with the gloves of his uniform, his helmet glinting as he tilted his head thoughtfully. Attention pulled, Rogers asked him what was on his mind.

"Towards the end...some of them seemed to, I dunno, trip out," Scott attempted to explain, arms crossing over his chest as he pondered it. He glanced over at a group of detainees he had apprehended. The ones that had not passed out were staring off into space, as though they were subjected to the worst visual torture of their lives, rather than just a beat-down. Hooking his thumb at them, his canned voice bubbled up again. "Like what Wanda does to some guys, but...when they dropped, they were screamin' about it not being right, a different world."

The rest of the team looked at one another, postures stiffening as they considered his report.

"Kinda like the gang members from awhile back," the new Captain America posited, recalling the testimonies of the fellows taken down in southern Asia two months ago. They had spoken similarly, had cried about seeing spaces between worlds, a dark figure with it all. Some had fallen prey to the same in New York as well. Beneath his helmet, the commander's eyebrows inclined at the Ant-Man, and his jaw ticked.

"They just dropped like sacks of potatoes? From inside their own heads?" he asked, looking for some clarifications. He wanted to eliminate possibilities of what had happened; perhaps it was an unfortunate off-shoot of the Scarlet Witch's abilities as she projected her hexes in battle. Detecting what he was implying, Wanda stepped forward, cutting a hand through the air.

"It was not me," she stated, wishing to clear her name of any possible wrongdoing. Though she'd had moments of slipped control, she had been well within her own power and faculties during that particular fight. After over a year and a half of training, she had made magnificent progress. She would not let what had happened be laid at her door. Clearing her throat, she took the plunge and announced, "I felt who had done it, felt him come. He altered perceptions so as not to be seen. He...he is on our side. I sensed no ill will towards us in him."

That had the group of heroes stunned. Having visions and nightmares projected was one thing, but entirely-altered realities? _That_ was new.

Finding his tongue first, Steve grunted, "So nobody saw him then."

Wanda shook her head, a touch harder than before.

" _They_ did not. _I_ did," she emphasized, her fingers fluttering first at the rest of the team and then at herself. Because of her abilities, she could not be fooled with mind-altering powers. Not for very long, at least. Due to her level of understanding and power, she had been able to peer out, see the dark figure that had been talked of by the reprimanded insurgents. Tall, dark hair that was silver-touched at the temples and hands out like hers, powers beyond her own imagining emanating from. What topped it off, in her estimation, was the billowing cloak that swathed him; there was no way one could forget that. One look from his icy eyes, though, and he was gone. Lifting a shoulder, she confessed almost bitterly, "He vanished before I could stop him."

"Sounds like a strange one," Barnes said before he could stop himself. Mentally, he was backlogging the information, much like everyone else was. Inwardly, he wondered if perhaps Wanda could work in conjunction with Synapse on the other team, see if they could possibly dig a little deeper into the mental realm and find more about the mysterious man, given his proclivities to be on that side of things. He shared a look with Rogers, the blond man's chin rising slightly in silent agreement to whatever was being planned.

The younger Maximoff snorted, crossing her arms. "You have no idea. This won't be the last time he comes around, I think."

"We'll see," Steve said, his lips thinning. More players were on the board now, more than he had surmised would be out there. However, at that moment, it was enough to know that this one was on their side. At least marginally. Heaving a sigh, he murmured, "Maybe next time—if there is a next time—he'll stick around long enough to answer some questions."

A ring of nods bobbed around him, with the redhead of the bunch suddenly straightening and stepping away. Drawn back into their present circumstances, he stepped back as the captain beside him issued commands to double-check all restraints on the captured, and prepare for the officers who would be coming to arrest them. Rogers moved to assist them, but was stopped when Natasha held up a hand, a wide, devious smile gracing her lips.

"Authorities are on the way," she confirmed, sharing a nod with the field leader before letting her gaze run back to the commander. "As are the press, it seems. _Someone_ got spotted when he landed, and now they're looking for answers."

A groan ripped out of Steve's throat before he was aware of it coursing up. The others caught that as they went about their work, chuckles and chortles ricocheting around them.

"Damn," he grumbled to himself. Bucky, barely able to suppress his own grin, strode past him, slapping him on the shoulder before putting as much distance as possible between the front entry and the commander. He'd already had to deal with the media vultures once too often in the recent past (so many were attempting to pick and jab at him now that he was Captain America, and he deflected them just as swiftly).

"Your turn, pal," he called back, a mock salute given to Rogers as he walked away. "Enjoy it."

Steve let his head droop momentarily, gathering himself as the sirens and the growls of engines grew ever-closer to the compound.

"Haven't hear that enough in the last few months," he mumbled under his breath, squaring his shoulders and looking up just in time for the first police car and the first news stations truck to break through the barrier. First them, then Fury, and then home, he promised himself, swinging his shield onto his back harness and walking forward.

 **xXxXxXx**

It was late afternoon when the first alerts popped up. Having long ago subscribed to the system that would update her on the world's reports of the Avengers (and with JJ installed into nearly all of their receptive electronic devices), Holly was not surprised to see the first articles of the mission roll in. With Grant on her lap mouthing contentedly on his stuffed, giraffe-shaped rattle, she clicked away from the word document holding the story she had been editing. The first few links were little more than blurbs reporting on the safety of the team, and the speculation of what they were doing in Canada, but the last one was an actual article page. He transcript was still in the process of being edited, but it and a video had been uploaded. To her genuine astonishment, the frame it had centered on was Steve in full regalia, a microphone in his face and a smoking office building in the background behind him. Knowing full well that he would have preferred to avoid interviews in such a setting, she couldn't resist clicking on the play button.

Shifting the baby to sit a little higher, she pointed with her free hand at the screen on and off, praising the child's father and encouraging the little guy to take note whenever Steve was speaking. Though there was not much he could disclose about the Avengers' presence or about the enemy they were detaining, he did indicate that the danger was passed for the civilians in the area, and the others would continue working tirelessly until the situation was fully resolved. The reporter persisted in asking a few questions about his own presence there after such a long absence, and what the captain was doing those days. When he pronounced his new title, she giggled upon hearing the interviewer's fast intake of breath.

Scrolling down to the open comments section beneath the video and the typed report, she could see the surprise was not limited to the reporter.

 _ **OMG,**_ _ **Commander**_ _ **Rogers?! He's a commander now? Awesome! And look at him**_ , one poster stated. A litany of emoticons, full of hearts and drooling smiley faces, had followed, and Holly rolled her eyes a bit in good humor. Snickering, she noted the person's continuation. _**Sooooo jealous of his wife right now!**_

Another commenter interjected, _**First time on camera in months. Thought he was dead.**_

 _ **Nope, apparently not**_ , answered the next. _**Looks like he just got promoted. Word is he's been out of the game to be with his family more. Trade-off's pretty fair, I think; the wife's pretty hot.**_

Marveling at the ability of word traveling outside of their little community upstate, Holly shook her head. The same person had replied to the comment, with only a picture in the space. It was of her on Steve's arm two years ago, when they'd gone to the Fourth of July celebrations put on by the one senator that year. Emoticons followed it as well, though they were less innocent than the ones above. Her dark gaze scanned over it, immediately picking out what had changed in her appearance since then, and she grimaced. Bouncing Grant a little in her lap, she snorted.

"You wouldn't be saying that if you could see my extra fat or my stretchmarks, dude," she muttered to herself, her finger pushing the roller on the mouse to continue reading. A few seconds later, her face creased in disgust, the stark words on the screen blaring out at her.

 _ **Took him long enough to come back**_ , the person had harrumphed in written word, an angry-faced smiley following. Her spine stiffened as her gaze flicked over the block of text that followed, unable to look away. _**He belongs out there, fighting bad guys and aliens and stuff. Can't believe THE Captain America up and turns his back on everything just for some random bitch he didn't even know five years ago. Apparently getting knocked up still works to keep people chained up.**_

Holly blinked, the old and familiar twinge in her stomach and heart rising. It was not the first time she'd read insulting words about her, and her relationship with Steve, on the Internet. Given how public a figure he was, it was impossible to avoid the overflow onto her life. And generally, she found the overflow to be harmless. Sure, some people were overzealous at times, and it did cause her to be stared at even while doing simple things like buying groceries, but it usually wasn't bad. However, sometimes it veered into unpleasantness, where people would be all too vocal about anyone interfering with any of the Avengers' lives. Sometimes it was jealousy, or pure ignorance, that had caused the hateful words to spill over, but it happened. Holly's skin had thickened exponentially over the last couple of years, but she could not deny that stings still pricked her when she did stumble across people spouting their vitriol all over the place. Especially when it involved the baby; that had her seeing red, more so than anything else. The arm holding her son tightened a fraction, the little boy she loved anchoring her as she found the courage to scroll down again. Little did she know that the reply to the text would be of a differing nature.

 _ **If he'd really turned his back on the world, we wouldn't see him at all anymore**_ , the person responding started, making her straighten up in her seat. _**Clearly not true, as suggested by the video above. Also, of course he didn't know her then; he'd come out of the ice five years ago, YOU MORON. He didn't know hardly anybody! I didn't realize that a human being with his own thoughts, opinions, etc. would sacrifice all of that just to conform to your image of him. Also, how do you know if she's a bitch? You've met her, talked to her, etc.? Someone's coming across as bitter and jealous, and it ain't me. Last point: he is called commander now. If you actually like the guy, at least show that much respect. Logic, man.**_

Swallowing against the hard lump in her throat, Holly breathed, "I don't know who you are, but you just won the title for 'Internet Hero' today."

Grant cooed a little, and she took it as agreement. Scrolling down a little further, her grin slowly returning at the praise given for the rest of the Avengers, and the private speculation about what they had been looking for in Canada, of all places. She stopped when she came across one with a time-stamp, the excessive excitement oozing out of the comment.

 _ **He's so talking about his baby, how sweet is that?! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHDYING!1!1!**_

Frowning, she clicked the link of the time-stamp; she wasn't sure how she missed him talking about their son, but the poster had her curious. It brought her back up to the video, replaying it from a point near the end of the interview. The reporter had been in the middle of a question, one that asked after the team and what they intended to do next, now that they had met their objective for the day.

"We'll be on our way soon to process evidence and delve deeper into the issue," he explained, his answer diplomatic and concise. Tipping his head to a point off-screen, he muttered, "Need to get home fast."

"Any particular reason for that, sir?" the interviewer wondered, a slight lilt to her voice.

That time, she caught the minute quirk at the corners of his mouth, the brightening of his gaze. "At least a little one."

"You dork," she whispered to the screen, genuine warmth and approval flowing through her. She paused the video there, not needing to hear the sign-off once again. New comments had been added since she'd first started reading, and her eye was drawn to those as well. One had answered back to the time-stamped one, wondering what they had named their son. Shortly after, a comment with a Wikipedia link was provided. Opening it in a new tab, she scanned down her husband's entry page to the personal life tab, easily finding her name and Grant's. A mild shiver coursed up her spine; it was mildly creepy for her baby boy's name to be publicly known now, but she reckoned there wasn't much that could be done about it. Clicking back, she tapped through a few more comments, a couple of the new ones catching her attention.

 _ **The new Cap is cool, don't get me wrong, but you can't beat the classic! Steve Rogers is needed out there!**_

 _ **Dude, with all the Avengers running around, he's actually not. More Iron Man, bro.**_

 _ **Nah, that Ant-Man guy...he's the ringer. Gotta keep an eye on him.**_

 _ **Think they'll get Spider-Man in on all this? Esp. after helping them with those UN attacks?**_

 _ **Good thing they all came through it. Bet their families are relieved.**_

"Oh, we are...all things considered," she replied to the person aloud when she finished. Letting out a slow breath, she could see the comments devolving from there, responses petering off slowly, and so she closed the web-page. Leaning back against the chair, she bit her lip and tilted her face up. All that she'd read swirled in her mind, and slowly, she digested it. Little legs kicked out after a few moments, and she glanced back down at her son, smirking. "You held up pretty nicely on there, bud. But then again, it's hard for anyone to hate a baby."

For his part, Grant's face seemed to scrunch up almost thoughtfully, as though he wondered how his mother was doing. Gently combing the askew strands of his hair, she shook her head and grinned at him.

"It's fine, Mommy can take it," she assured him, planting a peck on the little guy's forehead. Happy gurgles followed as she hoisted him up, patting his back and sighing. "Gladly, considering what the pay-off is."

The truth of her words filled her heart and flowed out, enabling her to push away from the computer entirely. The remainder of her afternoon and evening were spent on a couple of small chores, performed in between getting Grant another bottle and tidying up her newest submission for publication, the short story printed off for mailing in—instead of going the electronic route—to one of the magazines she liked. With the hour growing later, and her husband still away from home, she chose to lock up the house a little earlier than usual, the security settings on as she put the baby to bed. As it was too early to go to sleep herself, she gathered up the baskets of laundry from both bedrooms, intent on getting one last chore finished. Pausing by the record player, she put on one of the discs, the music rolling softly as she started the first load.

It wasn't until the second load was being placed in the washer, and the first chugging away in the dryer, that she heard the distant sound of a door swinging and clanging shut. Carefully extracting her phone, she grinned down at the device; the message of return had been sent several minutes prior, and it was about the right time for the footsteps above her head to creak over the floorboards. The record player was switched off, and the footsteps pattered back to the basement stairs, the door left open and allowing easy access. Thump after thump followed, and a low sigh echoed out as the flop of a bag and the muted clang of a shield were dropped to the floor. The curtain to the laundry area was pushed to the side, and she looked up in time to catch Steve's gaze, a tired smile on his lips. A little rumpled, with the slight whiff of sweat around him, but he was no worse for the wear. He was as she had seen earlier, but the confirmation of him standing right there always helped.

"You're home fast," she said, tapping a finger against the screen of her phone before pocketing it. Flicking her gaze up, she grinned and continued innocently, "The little reason is asleep now. Suppose you can make time for a slightly bigger one?"

Blue eyes veritably glittered at her words, and Steve's chest rumbled with a chuckle as he stepped further into the space, the curtain falling shut behind him.

"Absolutely," he proclaimed, slinging his arms around her and embracing her tightly. Squeezing him back, she relaxed into his hold for several long moments, the last waves of her worry flooded over by relief at his return. Pulling back, he planted a kiss in her hair before meeting her gaze again. A smirk danced over his features as his fingers cupped the nape of her neck. "Enjoyed the interview, did you?"

"The video, sure. The open comments area...meh," she murmured, canting her head to the left. As his brow furrowed and his jaw quirked, she cupped a hand in the air. "Some were sweet, but you know how a few people like to spew hate just because they can."

Of course he knew; he was not ignorant of the public backlash that could hit them on occasion. When he was on his own, he truly did not give a damn about it. But now, two years on and with a family that received the lashings as well as he, with his wife taking a fair share of the hits for doing nothing other than loving him and caring for him, he was far more aware of it all. And he didn't like it one bit. Huffing under his breath, his glare narrowed at a point over her head.

"What happened to the adage, 'If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all?'" he wondered facetiously. Holly snorted loudly.

"It gets checked at the threshold of the Internet, along with common sense," she pronounced sagely; as a child of the Internet age, she knew that to be all too true. It was why, while some of the taunts and slings did hurt, she did not allow herself to take any to heart. Not entirely. She knew how easily people could hide behind anonymity and a screen to do and say whatever they wanted, regardless of feelings or censure. But this was a conversation she'd already had with her husband, and she wasn't in the mood to rehash it all over again. Not then. "It doesn't matter; really, it doesn't." She had reaffirm her words when Steve scoffed slightly, the objection in his eyes entirely apparent. Reaching out, her palm framed his cheek, her thumb brushing over the skin for a few seconds. "What matters is that you're safe, and here. And you like me; that's good enough."

Steve scoffed again, but it was a lighter, sweeter sound, with some warmth leaking into his irises.

"Uh, it's a lot stronger than 'like,' doll," he corrected her mildly, his hand moving from her neck up into her hair. Drawing her forward, he captured her lips with his, the tender embrace lasting several long moments. When finished, he braced his forehead against hers and exhaled quietly. "Which you know very well."

"Mm-hmm," she agreed, the end of her nose bumping his before she stepped away. Dark brown eyes ran over him, and she asked, "You eat yet?"

"I grabbed something on the carrier."

At that moment, a low growl emitted from within him, and she laughed outright at it. Well, at it and at the frown Steve directed at it. Shaking her head, she took a step back from him.

"Yeah, well, given that your stomach just ratted you out, you should probably get something else in there. After a shower," she stipulated, scooping up the hitherto abandoned basket and dumping in the last of the dirty clothes into the washer.

Steve frowned, plucking at his shirt and raising it to his nose for a test sniff. In his opinion, he didn't smell bad. Just a little sweat and heat, but neither were enough to be a deterrent, he thought.

"Really? I didn't hardly do anything," he said, attempting to make his case. Holly, though, merely inclined her eyebrows.

"Yes, really. The helicarrier has a smell, and it is all over you, along with the funk," she replied, dropping and pushing the basket to the side with her foot. Stepping near him again, she tapped a finger on his chest and peered up at him. She softened her request, asking, "Please?"

"Yes, dear," he muttered, deflating a little as he started to move away. However, he was preempted from going too far by her grip on his arm. Halted, he turned back in time for her to wrap her arms tightly around him again. At once, he held her close, the solidity and warmth of her body in his grasp comforting.

"Glad you're home safe," she said, her voice muffled into the crook of his neck. There would be time to discuss (or deflect, as she teased him about the confidential sides of his work that he could not speak of) later on. For the moment, it was enough to have him and hold him, back with her again. His nose was buried into her hair, and his mouth turned up in a tiny grin.

"Me, too."

* * *

 **A/N:** So we get a taste of some action this time around, a little more Avengers stuff thrown into the mix. I never intended to fully abandon all of that; just the main focus is in a different league than that, now. Is this the end of the action? Oh, definitely not. I may or may not have more up my sleeve for the next go-around...we'll see...we'll also be checking in with the team across the pond, so look out for that.

Also, yes, that was a certain 'strange doctor' that got caught up in the fray (with his powers possibly tweaked for the purposes of this story)...;-) We'll see if he makes a full appearance in the future.

And once again, I touch on the public speculation/microscope that the Rogers family is still under, even as removed as they are from majorly populated areas. Some people on the Internet are jerks, but not everyone. :-) Hope the switch between comments and regular text wasn't too confusing to read...

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!

 **EDIT:** To clarify, because I have been asked, Steve's new uniform looks like his stealth uniform from Winter Soldier, except all black. With a silver star on the chest and silver bands running to the shoulders. I mentioned it a little in Ch. 6, but I wanted to address it to prevent any further confusion. Hope that helped!

 **FINAL EDIT:** Last word, I promise...I have posted the first chapter of another CA story featuring Steve and Holly, set in a modern, real-world AU. It is called, Four Seasons, and can be found under the My Stories tab on my page. Please check it out, if you feel so inclined. :) Okay, that's truly it for now!


	9. Chapter 9

The bustling activity in that area of Lyon should have dropped off once the sun had set, the workers gone for the day and the businesses shut down. There was one, however, where the lights continued to burn bright as the minutes ticked by, and from the darkness came the shadowy figures, shifty characters setting up base and making call-outs, awaiting something. Two more men were on the scene as well, though they were less obvious about their presence. They'd crouched low, watching the foot and vehicle traffic from atop an office building across the street. One, attired in black and the flag of the United Kingdom weaved into the armor across his chest, remained vigilant, a gloved finger scratching his cheek through the breathable cloth mask over his face. The other, picking at the steel blue and gray seams of his own uniform, started jiggling his foot, his hand raking back through his silvered hair and a derisive snort shooting out of his nose. They'd been on the roof for at least an hour by that point, awaiting a delivery of illegal weapons from a notorious proprietor. However, neither the weapons nor the proprietor had shown, despite confirmation leaked from the private comm channel the others shared. Not able to help himself any longer, he stood, his sudden pacing at least well-hidden by the shadows.

"Come on, why are they being so slow?" he groaned, his accented voice cutting through the air as he moved.

Beneath the mask, behind the specially-designed eyepieces that protected his vision while still providing full use, Joe Chapman rolled his eyes. He'd all but counted on Pietro's impatience, but he had hoped it would have held off at least a little longer.

"Everyone is slow in comparison to you, Maximoff," he groused back, rising from his crouch and squaring his shoulders. The mold and weave of his uniform, the cut of the Kevlar armor incorporated into it, adjusted as he did so. Flapping a hand out towards the building on the other side of the street, he stated, "Don't get your knickers in a twist; they'll show."

Pietro raised a brow, eyeing him dubiously. "You're positive on this?"

Joe let his own spike, though it could not be seen.

"You knocking my sources, kid?" His tone was deliberately light, but there was an edge of steel under it. Lifting a shoulder, he continued, "Yeah, it didn't come through the super-official channels, but just because it came from a different direct source doesn't mean it doesn't have merit."

The elder Maximoff twin let out a long-suffering sigh. "I'm just saying, Finesse is on the boards nearly around the clock for a reason."

The glimmer of humor was still in his eye, despite his impatience and frustration, and Joe couldn't help but poke at it a little, even in the tense moments preceding a job.

"I could pull age, rank, and experience on you right now, if you really want."

A clearing throat came over their comms, silencing Pietro's building rebuttal.

"Gentlemen, if you could play nice, we do have a mission to complete here," a cool, mellow tone interrupted them, and one could sense the disapproving frown being directed towards them. Crystal had been stationed around the back of the target building, the third of their party and the last, seeing as how the others were occupied with different missions on the docket. Taking the reprimand for what it was, the two men groaned and rolled their eyes, both dropping back into their crouches (with the Maximoff twin muttering how she was his girlfriend, not his mother, to which Crystal merely hummed). A few moments of silence fell, broken only by shouts traded between the darkly-garbed insurgents posted outside. Soon enough, Chapman picked up the thread again, his voice no-nonsense as he made his case.

"I doubt Agent Carter would lead us astray," he said in a hushed tone as they continued observation. Sharon had been on the periphery of the team for some time, after she'd made a couple of deliveries on behalf of her boss to the base. With the relations building between branches of the CIA and the Avengers, it made sense for connections to be made. After meeting her directly due to unfortunate circumstances (her great aunt had passed away, someone Joe had greatly admired in the past, and they both attended the funeral), he sought to continue the connection to her specifically. Striking up a rapport, it was all business and mission work, supplied whenever he had a free moment to meet her. Well, to start with, but that was hardly the kid's business. "We're all on the same side. Even if she is CIA."

A sly grin curved Pietro's lips, and he couldn't help but dart a glance at his leader. "Even if she wasn't, would it matter to you, Chapman?"

The older man's response was lost as a sudden arrival of Hum-Vees rolled up in the street, sharp turns taken as they parked in the expansive yard before the building. Before long, a man with long, mud-colored hair had stepped out, gesturing and screaming at the hired hands around him to keep an eye on the goods and be ready to move as soon as the command was given.

"Showtime, Quicksilver," Joe said, his posture stiffening and the persona of Union Jack taking over fully. On his feet again, he palmed his Glock and his knife, the drop point sharpened and prepared for battle. "Ready on your end, Crystal?"

"Yes, sir," was the response, a final crackle coming over the comm line. "Meet you inside."

Descending from the office building swiftly, Chapman brought up the rear while Maximoff led, all per the plan they'd set out earlier. The Enhanced fellow rocketed into the yard, dazing and dropping enough of the guards to grant access to the others before an alarm could sound. Vaulting over the hood of one Hum-Vee, Union Jack landed beside a few of the fellows who had taken shelter from the speeding menace. Shots and slashed ringed him as he moved, a falling insurgent acting as a pommel for him as he pushed up and swung his legs around. Hard kicks and elbow drops floored the last of them, and with a point of his blade, he motioned for Quicksilver to pass the first barriers of the building. The place was, in fact, a converted warehouse, open all the way up to the ceiling with main floor sectioned into cubicles. Distant shouts were coming from the dead center, and when he and his companion arrived on the scene, he could see why. Crystal, a master of the elements, had taken a rough approach, raising columns of dirt from beneath the flooring to knock the assembled black market dealers to and fro. Another hand extended up, a whipping wind pushing in from an opened window above (her entry point, as would be discovered later), keeping any attempted escapees from getting too far. Those she left to Pietro, lightning fast jabs and kicks dealt as he sped around them, the blue and white blurs of the air dissipating when he chanced to stop between a few of them. The target, the main dealer, was struggling up the stairs at the far end, trying his damndest to get away. That, Joe decided, he could take care of. Dodging the natural attacks of his teammates, the roaring wind nothing more than a gentle breeze to Crystal's friends, he clambered up behind the guy, dropping when a desperate haymaker was sent in his direction. He puts up enough of a fight to slow down proceedings, but the guy was up against an Avenger, whose career prior to that had been working as a special agent and with MI6. His chances were minimal at best, and he realized it the moment Union Jack threw him to the floor and knocked him out cold.

Zip ties and calls were made once the scuffle had ended, the local constabulary arriving with minimal fuss. The uninjured of the lot would be detained and processed immediately, with the target leader sent on to NATO for questioning. Given his increased presence in the area, with the attention and terror he attracted due to the nature of his business, the fellow had been a thorn in their sides for quite some time. They just couldn't get a lead on him. Not before the Avengers had, at least. Accepting their thanks with a simple nod, the three team members were back across the city in a short while, a quinjet dispatched for them and picking them up. Chapman went about the work of alerting Fury to his finds, knowing full well the man would likely not answer him for awhile; the hour was already ungodly, and woe betide anyone who brought Nicholas J. Fury anything less than a catastrophe to interrupt his sleep. Another update was fired off to the main base, to Director Hill and with Rogers CC'd in the line. Meanwhile, Pietro and Crystal were at work tending to a few minor abrasions they'd received, both of them sporting grateful expressions. At least for that mission, they were coming away relatively unscathed. It certainly felt like a victory to Union Jack, his mask removed once he was finished with everything and had discussed how far out they were with the pilot. Stepping around the centralized console, he let out a low sigh.

"So overall, fairly decent," Joe pronounced, with a touch of smugness in his voice. Tucking his mask into one of the pockets on his belt, he shot Pietro a significant glance. "Looks like my sources still check out."

A wry snort shot out of the younger man, but he did not reply. That did not mean nobody had anything to say to him about it.

"I'm sure you check out your source rather thoroughly," Crystal murmured quietly, a sly smirk on her face as he turned and gave her a hard glare. The carrot-and-black-haired beauty was strictly business during the main event, but the minute it was over, she broke that facade. Personally, he blamed Maximoff for that; she'd always maintained a level of dignity and respect before that kid wormed his way under her barriers. That, or she had found the ease to do so when enough time had passed. Eh, it was easier to blame the kid, he mused jokingly, though he made sure nothing but annoyance registered on his face. For his part, Pietro merely snickered, looping an arm around the woman's shoulders and pressing his lips to her temple, fast and sweet.

"Is a good one, Princezná," he complimented her, shooting Chapman a mocking look. The older man could not help but look heavenward and thank his good luck that the quinjet finally completed its landing.

"Shut it, Speedy," he groused, ignoring the younger man's teasing nod of compliance. Another round of smothered giggles echoed, and he jabbed a finger in Crystal's direction as well. Children, he was riding herd over a bunch of children some days, he thought to himself. "And you."

Exiting the jet, the trio trekked across the landing pad, the glow of London's night lights providing enough spillover to find their way to the roof entrance and elevators. They took it directly down, a card swiped and Joe's private code punched in to allow them to descend to the lower levels. Stopping on the floor for uniform lock-up and cleaning, the three of them went to their separate spaces, boots and armor shunted away, jackets and masks placed on pegs outside their locker areas for deep cleaning. Checking his weapons, Chapman was pleased to note that they'd come away without any hard wear on them. Nodding once, he turned and threw on the jeans, long sleeved tee, and sneakers he'd had to abandoned earlier for their work. Tugging all into place, he stepped out of his private cubicle, hesitating in his steps when he spotted Pietro and Crystal sharing an embrace, civilians clothes on and relief lacing through them. Coughing once, he smirked when they jumped apart, sheepish smiles on their faces as he strode past them. Taking out his cell phone as he thumbed the button for the lift again, he tapped out a short message. Though he wasn't required by any means to report to Carter, he did want her to know that he'd taken care of the job she could not convince her boss to look into.

"Reports due by the afternoon tomorrow," he told the couple as he boarded, shooting Pietro a faux glare when the younger man grumbled aloud. Inclining his head, he brushed off the groans and dissatisfaction. "Standard, people, been that way for over a year and a half now."

A chime cheerily came out of his phone, and he could not stop himself from grinning down at the message he'd received.

 **Meet-up tomorrow, 49 Cafe, 10:30?**

"And yours will be in...?" Maximoff called distantly, bringing him out of his enjoyment into the present moment. Chapman flapped a hand at him, barely looking up at he slid his finger over the screen of the device.

"Always before yours, kid," he retorted, another derisive grunt sent his direction. As the doors to the conveyance started to shut, he gave them his parting words. "See you in the morning."

Resting back against the wall, he grinned as the numbers climbed and the floors slid past, his thumb finally hitting the send button and confirming his plans for the next day.

 _ **I'll be there. See you in the morning.**_

 **xXxXxXx**

Joe was up early the following day, up before the alarm on his phone had chirped at him. Sunlight was streaming through the blinds on his window, the soundproofed glass blocking out the crash and thrum of commuters in central London as he yawned and looked around the room. After a year and a half of living in the space, the place felt more homey. Glancing at the photos on the dresser, he pushed himself off his bed, pressing two fingertips to his lips and placing them over the frame holding his mother's picture, a ritual he performed ever day when he was ready to go out and be a part of the world. There were more woods and earth tones throughout his apartment, from bedroom to kitchen, carpets sprawling and softening the fall of his feet, a conscious choice to differentiate the space from the angular, metallic nature of some of the public rooms used by the agents and staff assigned to work there. Sidling into the kitchen, he grabbed a glass and got himself some water, a yawn and stretch capping off his getting-up routine.

Normally, being up before his alarm would have gotten under his skin, but the flow of energy in his was enough that it registered only as a minor irritation. Making good use of the time, he changed into appropriate workout gear, sweats and a t-shirt emblazoned with the Liverpool F.C. logo. Not having been graced with superhuman abilities, whether through Enhancement or anything serum-related, he had to strive and work hard to keep himself in top physical shape. Or, as he endeavored pragmatically, well enough so that he didn't collapse like a ton of bricks against whatever other guy came at him. Either way, it had him down in the extended gymnasium in the underground levels of the complex. The muted noise of London, even at that early hour, was lost the lower he went, and it vanished further still when he directed the AI connected to the sound systems to churn out some decent music. The tracks that ran in tandem with his chosen exercises—lifting and running, light in respect to the heavy work done the night before—and within an hour, he'd felt himself come to an equilibrium. Sweating and loosened up, he took the lift back up to the floor of private offices, getting into without any issues.

As a marked difference from the designs of the base across the pond, there were no walls of glass anywhere in the London one. The private offices were truly private, panels and light colors brightening the smaller spaces (since it all had to fit within a few large city blocks). As he'd declared, he working quickly at his report, typing fast and occasionally swiping the drying sweat from his brow and neck. Before long, he'd had it backed up on his private hard drive, the final copy out and emailed to the commander and the directors for perusal, as well as to the archivists onsite. Taking the time to check the digital log-in sheet, he noticed that Synapse and Kate Bishop are still off-site, on a recon mission in Austria. The return time for them got bumped back by another twelve hours, as they had uncovered something deeper in their work, and were not prepared to leave just yet. He sent them a quick message to tell them to remind them to call, rightfully earning the epithet of "smother-mother" that was shot back moments later. By the time he was strolling out, he could see Pietro unlocking his office door, a yawn and a muted glare tossed his way when he waved. Shit-eating grin on his face, Joe checked the clock on his phone, determining that he had enough time to shower and change before his scheduled meeting for the day. Going back upstairs to do just that, he took a little more care in dressing, a dark blue jumper selected and paired off with his good jeans and shoes. His stomach growled, but he knew that would remedied soon enough, and so he pushed his hunger aside as he gathered up his essentials. Wandering down to the ground floor, he was tugging on his coat when he suddenly had to stop short. In his path was Lockjaw, the bulldog with strange markings on his coat and that basically was granted the run of the place. He'd come with Crystal, a package deal that neither Fury nor anyone else had really fought against. The reason why was withheld information, and it bothered Chapman to no end at the beginning, but by that point, he'd come to accepted the situation. Letting out a slow breath, he pulled on his coat and crouched before the dog, who had sat down and was staring at him almost curiously.

"Same as always, Lockjaw: if anyone asks, I'm out for a cuppa," he told the oversized bulldog, making eye contact with the animal. It was not the first time they'd had this exchange; really, it wasn't the first time any of them had felt compelled to speak to the animal. The big creature, Crystal's pride and joy, exuded an air that he knew more than any dog should, understanding what was going on around him and reacting to it (something that really irked Pietro, but for the sake of his girlfriend, he'd made peace with it). When the dog did no more than yawn and flop onto the floor, Joe nodded once, reaching out and scratching between Lockjaw's ears. "Good man."

Making his way out of the back doors, he took a taxi across the city, the lapels of his coat turned up against the wind and a hat clapped onto his head, obscuring his face from the passersby when he was dropped off. Although the primary team was more easily picked out when it came to crowds, it would have been foolish to think that he could get away with anonymity. Particularly in London, when people knew them as residents of the city as well. Although wearing a mask into combat did help in keeping his identity on the down-low, he thought to himself as he pushed his way into the small cafe down the block. Shouldering his way through the door, he folded down his lapels, a slow shiver crawling up his spine as the cold of the morning melted away. His gaze shifted subtly as he approached the counter, pleasantries passed between him and the barista. Alighting upon the tables set up near the back, he caught the flash of golden hair, of warm eyes, and he felt his lips curve. Sharon Carter was already there, as planned, two large mugs of coffee steaming and sitting before her. Amending his order to be brought down to only a chocolate croissant, he sauntered beyond the long table to wear she was, wedged between brick and paneling. A flash of discomfort went through him; he wasn't huge, by any means, but the layout of the place certainly wasn't wide, and his frame was large enough that he had to do a form of shuffling to sit in the seat across from her.

Plopping into his chair, he noted that she, as ever, looked well. He also noted that she'd picked a decent place to meet up; it was small and discreet, but not so overt about being so that it was drowning with undesirable elements. He knew he could count on her to pick a decent cafe.

Leaning back in his seat, he let his gaze wander over her again before grunting. "Huh."

A finely shaped eyebrow spiked, mirth starting to glitter in her irises as she asked, "What?"

Smirking, he tipped his hand towards the cups of coffee on the table. "It's always funny to me when my normal excuse to get away ends up being true, to some degree."

At that, she did smile, a chuckle coursing out of her.

"All the best ones are based in truth, after all," Carter proclaimed, the joking lilt in her voice strong as she nudged a cup and saucer towards him. Taking it, he sipped appreciatively, saluting her silently with it in gratitude. Accepting it with the tip of her head, she scooted closer to the table with her chair, and her voice pitched a little lower. "Thank you for taking a closer look in Lyon. My boss didn't think it was worth investigating; he's neck deep in some negotiations with the agencies in Wakanda."

Joe snorted at that. Over the course of the part few months, both with Sharon's personal stories and his own assessment of the fellow when they'd met in person, he could see all too well how he would think so. The guy was stretched too thin as it was, and his sarcasm and acerbity tended to make situations more abrasive, no matter how diplomatic he could or couldn't be. That, and the neurotic little dude seemed to have issues with people acting of their own volition. Control freak.

"As you said," he returned, gracing her with a curve of his lips before bringing up the cup for a healthy swallow. Americano with an extra shot of espresso; it was a good kick for the remainder of his day. She'd chosen well, clearly having learned for previous meet-ups. Giving an appreciative hum, he caught the pleased look she donned right before delving into her latte. "Not a problem. Still, probably would be good to have a bit more to tell the uppers when I have to report in later than, 'random CIA source said this activity looked dodgy, thought we should give it a go.'"

He said all this with a lackadaisical look, a shrug of the shoulders given. She shook her head, a playful roll of the eyes following.

"Despite that being what happened, basically," she said, sitting back in her chair. The light in her eyes dimmed a little, and he knew that shutters were beginning to fall into place. Not that what they were doing was illegal, per se; Sharon had gone through the correct channels to alert the secondary team of her finds. It was more that her control freak of a boss wouldn't be happy with her if he discovered how quickly she bucked info to them at times. However, Joe had his own bosses to think of, his own colleagues who were noticing the spike in side missions and wondering as to his sources.

"Gotta give them a little more to go on," he intoned smoothly, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the table top. Flashing her a fast look, he supplied, "I work for a few honest people, which unfortunately means that it rubs off on you, over time."

The shutters stopped falling, and curiosity lit her features.

"How'd you get conned into that?" she asked, the obvious tease in her tone and the crinkle at the corners of her eyes as she held in a laugh making him chuckle with her.

"Really, I'm doing it for the accolades. Union Jack has such notoriety these days." An exaggerated wink was shot at her, and she smirked back at him as he clicked his tongue and canted his head. "Nah, it's for the best. I'd rather be honest and have results, than shift through bullshit in MI6 for another year and ultimately get nowhere."

The smirk lessened, softened as she considered his words. Her focus latched onto a nick in the table's surface, a finger extended and tracing it for a few seconds.

"I know how you feel." And she did, truly. She wasn't just paying him lip service. It was frustrating, being where she was now, employed under someone who cared more for the enforcement of his own rules and agenda than for what was needed. The fact that she had given him the runaround hadn't gotten her into deep trouble yet, but Joe had listened to her when she felt she had no choice but to unload or lose her mind in the past few months. She knew what it was like to be stalled in doing what was right by idiotic bureaucracy. Not only that, she was doing it (mostly) all on her own; standing up to her boss could get things accomplished, but it also made her stick out in a not-so-positive way to the other agents. Add in the fact that she was not only working but living thousands of miles away from home, and he could see why she would feel overwhelmed by it all. Gently, he laid his palm atop her hand, a tender squeeze given as he stilled her movements. She met his gaze again, and she inhaled sharply when she'd noticed the joking nature of his expression had fallen toward truth and sincerity.

"Yeah, I know you do." Another squeeze, and then he withdrew, a little twinge plucking at him for doing so. Giving her a long look, he inquired, "Still worth it, Sharon?"

Meeting his eye squarely for a minute or two, she let out another sigh, earnestness taking her over.

"I'm still able to do good, in little ways. That alone makes it worth the headaches and the frustration."

"Hear, hear." Saluting her with his cup, he took another long sip of it, the hit of espresso bouncing off his tongue and making him sit up straight. Given his level of discreet charm and her brand of sweet strength, their conversation did not stick entirely to the business of protecting the world.

For which he was entirely grateful. Pure shoptalk the entire time would be boring, and Sharon Carter was definitely not boring, he was pleased to discover early on. Then again, given who her family was, it would have been impossible for her to ever be so. That in mind, Joe inquired after her immediate family, and whether or not she would make it back in time for Thanksgiving observances in America. She countered with asking how his father was coping after selling his childhood home and moving to the city to be closer to him. Passing the tale of how the older man had gotten turned around and lost on the Tube, he'd had her laughing outright when he mentioned arriving straight from a mission to help, in full regalia. So many people had wondered what was going on, while his dad all but pinched his ear and dragged him away from not coming sooner, concern for him following soon after. Bit and pieces of further conversation were passed, his croissant turning into a full breakfast that she shared with him. Swallowing the dregs of his second coffee (half caf that time), he let his eyes wander to the clock on the far wall, dipping his chin toward it.

"How long have you got before needing to get back to Germany?"

Following his gaze, Sharon sat up straighter in her chair, something like relief and pleasure flooding her face.

"I'm actually on something of a personal vacation," she confessed, to which Joe gave her a startled smile. It was rare to have days off for her that weren't sanctioned for holidays. "So a few days, at least. Maybe I'll take some time, see all those sights people go on about around here."

Tossing her hair and sipping the last of her own drink, she missed the thoughtful, pensive look Chapman directed at her. Eyes wandered over her, the the fall of her tresses about her shoulders to the soft-looking sweater she was wearing, and he cleared his throat after a moment.

"Well, if you fancy it, you could have the company of a native to show around those sights."

She inclined an eyebrow at him and pointed out, "You're from Liverpool."

"Closer than you, Miss America," he stated bluntly. Taking another deep breath, he tilted his head to the side, the overhead light catching and making a gleam light up his irises. Going for broke, he said, "I could even show you a few places not on your tourist map. If you'll let me."

The jesting lilt in her features slowly drained away, a blush crawling up her neck and into her face as she realized what he was really offering. The silence between them went on for long enough that he shifted uncomfortably in his chair; inwardly, he was chiding himself for reaching, for grabbing at something that must not have really been there. Suddenly, though, his self-doubt and recrimination came to a grinding halt as she took his hand, fingers curling around his and holding fast for a few moments.

"...Sure, Joe. I'd like that."

A new, broader smile broke out onto his face, and he asked her when she had the time. Glancing at the clock on her phone, she realized that she had to get going, file a follow-up report before truly starting her holiday, but that she was free the next day. Knowing of no missions that were on the docket, he offered to meet her the next afternoon, his walk turning into a veritable strut as he left the cafe and returned to the base. In such a good mood, he chose to use the stairs, crossing through security points with little fuss and happy nods given in greeting to those he passed by. Meandering through the main wing of the private offices, he let his gaze flicker over the large computer bank that took up a majority of the space. The three massive screens held camera footage, data streaming, live feeds from various points on the earth, and even a webpage dedicated to some show he'd never watched before. As always, a small body was perched in front of it, wrapped in thick layers and braces protecting the wrists as fingers flew from one keyboard to the next. Finesse was in her element; only her forays into the field with her billy clubs and sharp attitude surpassed her work there.

"Fury called, he and Commander Rogers were looking to conference," Jeanne piped up within two seconds of his passing her. The last wisps of clouds in his mind dissipated, and he shot her a careful look. That Fury would call in was inevitable, and generally Steve liked to be involved as much as he could be those days, but he hoped that he wouldn't be jumped the moment he got home.

"You tell him where I was?"

That got her to leave off giving the keyboard a beating, as she physically pulled away and swiveled in her chair to face him. Cropped black strands of hair fell into her eyes as she stared at him, examining him from head to toe. Her gaze narrowing somewhat, and a smirk threatened to break upon her lips.

"What, did I tell him you were out for your not-so-secret tryst with the Carter legacy?"

His brows furrowed; that he met up with Sharon on and off really wasn't something he'd ever hidden from them (at first, it was for liability purposes, but now...). Foucoult must have felt sure of her ground if she risked teasing him so openly, but he wasn't about to have any of it that day.

"Jeanne," he coughed at her, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to look imposing.

At once her hands flew up in mock surrender, and she sighed. "Relax, old man. He doesn't know. I said you were out escaping Duquesne and Maximoff's lunacy for the morning. He let it go after that. But he's angling for answers about yesterday's run, so I wouldn't recommend putting off for too much longer."

Joe let out a breath of his own. He trusted his team, trusted this young woman before him, to not rat him out even when he played a little hooky. And the nineteen-year-old, though not inclined towards people by any means, had his back. As she lowered her hands, she sat back in her chair, watching as he exhaled again and raked a hand through his close-cropped locks.

"All right. I'll get in touch with him." Stepping closer, he let his hand fall upon her shoulder, a minute squeeze given before dropping it. "Thanks, Jeanne."

A genuine grin came to her mouth, and she shook her head as she turned to face the screens again.

"No problem," she intoned quietly, the fast flutter of keys clacking cutting through the air. As he took a few steps away from her, he listened as she admonished him, "Just tell her we all say hi next time you see here, okay?"

Barking out a short laugh, he promised, "Of course."

A pleasant hum followed him down the hall, and he found himself checking his phone for the time. He supposed that it would be best to call Fury back right away. After a minor brainstorming session of his own, and some personal calls that needed to be taken care of.

 **xXxXxXx**

"Look at that: a real tourist's map."

Sharon looked up from the paper in her lap, folding it and giving a grin. As promised, Joe Chapman had met her the next day, a bench on the edge of Hyde Park designated for them. Having arrived first, she'd taken the opportunity to survey the area, finding it to be as safe as it could be at the beginning of November. Looking up at him as he stepped up beside her, her survey had moved onto his person. His dark, close-cropped hair had been combed and tidied up, the scruff on his jaw trimmed down. The thick wool coat he'd worn the day before was swathed around him, a checkered scarf at his neck. Hands wee buried into the pockets of his jeans, dark boots capping his feet and protecting him from the cold. A wide smile pulled at his lips and his bright eyes reflected impishness at her, knowing full well what she was doing and not stopping her in the slightest.

Glancing down at herself, the flutter of the ends of her hair around her shoulders and her hearty purple parka wrapped around her, she wondered if he was getting as much enjoyment out of examining her in return. Tapping a finger against the map, she rose from her seat, closing the distance between them.

"Well, some of us aren't, ahem, 'natives.' I wanted some base knowledge," she said, recalling his words from the day before. A light snicker came out of him then, and she grinned in response as she opened up the map again. Tracing her finger along the edge of it, pointing out a few options that intrigued her, she went on. "As well as that...the few times my family visited, we didn't see all that much for the usual fare."

The impressed cast to his features was not lost on her, and she scoffed in good humor.

"Remember, I am half-English, Joseph."

The grin on his lips became falsely sheepish, and he scratched at the back of his neck.

"Noted, Sharon," he riposted, shooting her a wink and earning a chuckle for his effort. Taking a closer look at her map, he nodded and tapped his finger at a corner a couple of streets over. "We'll start here, then."

Parks and bridges were out of the question for the day, due to the chillier temperatures and neither of them desiring to freeze as they went about the day, but there was plenty to choose from for their tourist-like adventure. It was impossible for them to hit all the places she wanted to go in one day, but he was amenable to the two or three she'd picked out. The obligatory stop outside Buckingham Palace had gone just about the way he'd thought it would, with cheesy pictures taken with her phone and watching at the fence when the guard changed. They opted out of any actual tour, since both had seen their share of imperial buildings in the past and neither thought they would be overly impressed with anything, save the amount of gilt lacquered everywhere. Madame Toussaud's was an absolute must for her to see; the wax figures were so lifelike and impressive, and she took delight in comparing them to the real visages celebrities and even dignitaries she'd met in person. It had turned out that there was a room specifically added on for "super personages", and the Avengers had merited figures of their own. Not all were on full display—the ones for Rogers and Barnes were in the process of being altered, due to their changes in position, and the one for Doctor Banner was relegated to storage for the time being—but the others were enough for her. Pausing at the one for Union Jack, Sharon insisted that Joe stand beside it, picture taken for side-by-side comparison. He found the likeness to be inaccurate, due to the fact that the model was decked out in full regalia, and the face wasn't visible. When Joe jokingly asked whether or not she had any wish to see the Churchill War Rooms next, she gave him a flat look and a swift denial ("Trust me, that I've seen, multiple times. Aunt Peggy's stories of the place hyped it up more than it could deliver."). Often, they found themselves strolling down the street between places, stopping in to fetch up food or drinks when they so desired. And they talked, talked about everything and nothing. It was something Sharon had not done with anyone beside family for a long time. Not even her closest coworker was privy to the story of her attempting to get into her flat in Germany, the code locked up due to her slight mispronunciation of certain words in the language when it tried voice recognition. It had ended with her spending the night in her neighbor's apartment, the paisley and checked theme of all the furniture nearly making her eyes bleed. But Joe did, and he laughed, countering with the ongoing battle he'd had at his apartment and his neighbor prior to working with the Avengers ("Think prank war, but amped to the nth degree due to the fact that we were both special agents with a lot of devious useless knowledge of random things at our disposal," he'd said, grinning as she giggled at his plight). At some point, her hand found its way into the crook of his elbow, and she couldn't blame the amount of passersby for how often she strode close to him, the occasional bumping of hips and brush of jackets flushing her skin as much as the cold had.

Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, and the blackness of night hurtled over the sky, Joe had guided her into a cab, telling her that while she had sway over the main day's events, the final one was his choice. Acceding to that, she peered out the window as the vehicle wound its way through the streets, dropping them down the block from the destination in mind.

"The London Eye, huh?" she asked, an eyebrow arching as she looked over the massive, rotating structure. Joe looked down at her, tilting his head to the right and cupping a hand in the air.

"All the sights in one shot as the finisher," he told her, blue-green eyes creasing at the corners. "Why not?"

Sharon inhaled deeply, scanning the structure dubiously for a moment.

"I could refute that logic, but...I'd rather not," she declared, all seriousness disappearing as she smirked up at him. "Let's do it."

Outwardly, he merely smiled and gestured for her to go ahead. Inwardly, he felt a massive spike of relief; even with the heavy discount and rule-bending the company had allowed for an Avenger to rent out a private capsule, he would still be out at least two-hundred quid. Following her in, watching her hips sway, he privately thought that he would have swallowed the expense if she'd not wanted to, so long as he could go with her wherever she wished to travel next. Having arrived ahead of time, they were conducted into a small lounge, minor moments of small talk pervading the air as they awaited the capsule assigned to them. Joe watched Sharon's astute eye wandering over it all, and the pleasant curve of her grin growing more genuine as the seconds passed. A part of him—a very small part, mind you—was worried that he was overstepping his bounds, that he had read the signals over the past few months incorrectly, and that this gesture would blow up in his face as soon as the minor set-up was finished.

Instead, Joe breathed a silent sigh of relief was Sharon went ahead of him, striding confidently into the private capsule. One of the attendants had gone the extra mile, a bottle of good wine and some small treats set out on the slatted wooden bench in the middle (he had no memory of requesting either thing, but then he'd heard the whisper about the Avengers and it all being on the house several seconds later, something which Sharon heard and snickered at, as well). Indulging in the extra perks, he sat down beside her just as the capsule began to lift, the smooth glide of the contraption nearly undetectable. The glittering lights of the city illuminated the structures and the banks of the Thames, the glow warm outside despite the chill of the November air. At Sharon's insistence, they cracked open the bottle of wine, hearty glasses poured, the taste complementing the hors d'oeuvres.

"Not a bad start to a vacation, right?" he inquired, flicking a glance at the well-worn map settled between them and grinning at her. The brightness of her smile was not dimmed, even as she rolled her eyes and finished off her wine.

"With a view like this, definitely not, she said, flapping a hand towards the nearest glass wall. Big Ben was rolling by before them, and she let out a small sigh. Setting down her empty glass, Sharon stood, wandering close to a railing and resting her hip against it. Gazing out for a few more moments, she murmured, "Wish it would last longer."

Setting down his own glass, Joe rose and joined her, tapping his thumb along the rail and shrugging.

"Yeah, I bet it could get harrying," he concurred, allowing himself a small grin as she seemed to edge a little closer to him. Shaking his head, he mumbled, "Particularly with your boss."

A sidelong glance was shot at him, and another step was taken, bringing her close enough so that he could feel the heat radiating from her body.

"I was actually speaking more about this," she professed, her voice huskier in that instant. His bright gaze met her heated one, a slow understanding blossoming inside him.

"You mean more time here," he pronounced, gaze boring into her as his palm rose. The work-roughed skin slid along the smooth line of her arm, up to her shoulder and cradling her neck. Working towards a clarification he desperately needed at that moment, he took another step closer to her. "Right here. With..."

Chapman was not ignorant. Though she had surrendered with good grace, he had seen the looks Carter had given Commander Rogers at her aunt's funeral all those months ago, when she'd the first of the drop-offs to the central office. As subtle as she was, he had gleaned through their conversations how much she'd admired Steve when she was growing up, living off the stories Aunt Peggy had told. However, despite a few chance encounters, it had come to nothing; the man was married, devoted to his wife who was pregnant with his son at the time. Sharon was pragmatic enough to understand that the road she'd had a chance to glimpse down was closed to her, and she could allow herself to move on with dignity intact. Still, the irrational twist in his stomach made him ask, made him wonder if she truly had. All those messages, private ones sent in between missions, the meet-ups in places that reflected her warmth and quiet strength, the little pieces of herself that she freely gave to him...could that all be for naught? Her gaze was steady and clear, meeting his without a shred of dishonesty or fear. Her own hands came up, one curling into the collar of his shirt, the other cupping his face. A thumb swept over the ever-present scruff on his face, soothing his concerns as it passed along his jawline.

"Yes," she breathed, another tender swipe dealt, a shudder running down his spine at the quiet confirmation that had been building between them truly wasn't one-sided. His fingers toyed with the hair falling down the back of her neck, a couple golden strands wound around the pads and tickling.

"Me, too," he whispered back. It had been some time—too long, really—that he'd allowed himself to let go enough, to leet down his defenses enough, to feel any sort of way about anyone. But Sharon had slipped in, recognizing what those defenses were and not letting them keep her from him. Swallowing hard, he blinked and pointed out, "Well, it's not over yet."

The capsule had come to the top of its rotation, the halfway point reached, though neither of them had truly noticed. The lights of the city, yellow and warm in the darkness of the night, seemed to backlight them both as they continued to look upon one another. They were at the edge, set to step over a line that there would be no coming back from if they crossed.

"It will be soon," she said, unable to stop herself from making the observation. Sensing the retreat she was tempted to take, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, silently pleading with her to stay. At once, she stilled, brown eyes wide and pink smattering across her cheekbones.

"But not yet," he asserted, lids drooping as his hand found its way from her neck to cup the back of her head. "Not before I can do this."

The last breath of space between them disappeared as he bent down, his mouth claiming hers in a searing kiss. Blood rushed through his veins as he heard the tiny intake of breath, the muted gasp stirring him as she met him. Stroke for stroke, she opened up to him, meeting each brush and graze with the same level of enthusiasm. Turning them both, he pushed her backside against the railing, the hand on her waist coming up and bracing against the glass, her own fingers tugging at the folds of his button-down and the belt loops of his jeans. Heat burst in their bodies, minds racing too fast to think beyond the feel of lips, the glide and taunt of tongues and teeth. The press of their bodies, the driving force of their acted-upon desire, pushed them onward, wrapping them up in each other and letting the world fall away. Slowly, the kisses became calmer, gentler, tender exchanges as they came back to Earth, back to the reality of the moment. Catching his breath, he closed his eyes again as the pads of her fingers danced along the column of his neck, combed through his hair.

"Joseph," she whispered, the easy intimacy she'd dealt with his name making him shiver with pleasure. Opening his eyes, he spied the dilated pupils, the mild trembling of her form. Looping his arms around her to calm her, he waited as she relaxed against him even further than before. "Not over yet."

"Not yet," he agreed, bracing his forehead against hers. Another smile pulled at his mouth, and he bumped the tip of her nose with his own, enjoying the pleasant hum as it flowed out of her. "Not for awhile, if you wish."

Beats of their hearts filled the quiet, the edge crossed and new territory unfolding before them. Tipping her chin up, she met his eye again, her gaze boring into him as her mind worked furiously. Soon enough, the barest hint of a nod was given, and her lids fell shut.

"Okay."

 **xXxXxXx**

No alarm was needed to awaken Joe the next morning. The nuzzle against the bare skin of his chest had roused him in more ways than one, lashes fluttering open and his head inclining to look downward. After their final expedition to the London Eye, both he and Sharon did not want the night to end. Ultimately, he brought her back to his flat at the base, the coolness of his rooms melting in the face of their mutual passion. Blonde hair was spread over him, the gentle press of her curves against his side enticing him towards a repeat of events. However, the rumble in his stomach had managed to override his other drives at the moment. Grumbling inwardly, he carefully removed himself from underneath Sharon, his pillow pulled down to support her head as she continued to doze. Automatically, her arms wrapped around it, her face buried against the teal case and her body curling into the heat he'd left behind on the sheets. Grinning down at her, he pulled the sheets up a little higher before fetching up his boxers from their place on the floor, shucking them on and almost whistling a tune as he did so.

Quickly assessing the lack of sustenance in his private kitchen space, he quietly cursed under his breath; he knew he should've popped to the shop when he'd had the chance a few days ago. Oh, well, nothing for it, he'd thought, moving onto Plan B swiftly. Silently, he exited his domicile, shuffling quickly through the halls and praying that he wouldn't meet with anybody on the way down. Given the unbroken solitude as he wandered and turned corners, he thought he might have gotten away with it. The hour was early enough; he might be able to get breakfast for him and Sharon without hindrance or awkward encounters, should his luck hold.

Naturally, the minute he thought that, his luck had run out. Passing through the wide canteen space, the slap of his bare feet echoing up to the ceiling as he dodged around the tables in semi-darkness, he felt the slide of disappointment slip down his gut. The light in the kitchen was on, and he could hear soft humming and the patter of footsteps just beyond the double doors. Sighing once, he inhaled sharply and squared his shoulders, pushing into the kitchen and plastering an impassive look on his face. The other person turned as he arrived, the coffee carafe in hand shaking a little as the pivot was completed, However, the look of surprise on her face rapidly dripped away, quickly overtaken by deep humor and a knowing glint invading her eye as he passed. Placing the nearly empty carafe back on the burner, she fetched up the bag of sugar nearby, dumping in several spoonfuls of the stuff into the tall thermos being used for the task. Nodding once, Joe continued with his quest, silently asking the powers that were why Finesse had chosen then, of all times, to separate from the computer of her own volition.

"Coming up for air, are we?" Jeanne jested after a few moments, another shot of sugar dumped into the thermos before her. Idly noting that they would have to look into a stronger dental plan in the future, Joe narrowed his eyes slightly at her when he glanced over his shoulder. Of course she'd have an inkling of what had happened; the security feeds were linked into the supercomputer, and she rarely left that thing if she could help it.

"It's really none of your business, kid," he retorted, turning around and facing the long cabinets again. He was beginning to wish he'd been better about his shopping that week; the communal kitchen space off the canteen was all smooth metals blending along the walls and into the adjoining counters. One could never be certain if they had found the refrigerator or the spice rack that spanned from floor to ceiling until it was too late. Clicking his tongue, he brushed off the younger woman's derisive chortles at his expense.

"Sure it isn't," she riposted, sipping long and loud from her thermos. Irritating him as she knew it would, he could feel the burn of her eyes wandering over him. About to ask what she was staring at, he soon enough got an answer. "You know your boxers are on backwards, right?"

Joe huffed out a scoff, before glancing down and confirming that she was absolutely correct.

"You know, I don't honestly care." He shrugged, pulling out a few granola bars and Pop Tart packages from the shelves. Reaching into another set, he was lucky enough to find some of the fresh fruit, and added it to the growing pile on the counter before him. "At least I'm wearing them at all."

"Like you'd venture down here naked," she returned in a joking voice. When Joe did nothing more than smirk and raise an eyebrow at her words, her grin slipped off her face. Furrowing her brow, she felt the tips of her ears burn at the lack of denial on his part. "You, you..."

"You're lucky you're normally attached to the main computer so much," he said then, nonchalantly traipsing over to the refrigerator bank and fetching up a bottle of apple juice from the inner shelf (on the first try, and he mentally high-fived himself). Shooting her a look, he muttered, "Spared you a lot of things in the past."

It was rare for Jeanne to be struck so hard by anybody's statements; she had liked to think herself immune to the insanity and inanities of the world they lived in. However, that little tidbit of knowledge had thrown her. Her dark gaze had widened significantly, rapid blinking coming hard on its heels. Joe watched the paleness in her face suddenly flush to a full scarlet, before she started to shake her head hard, as though she were trying to dispel the mental image. The hip that been leaning against the counter shied away then, as if she feared that his previous naked wanderings had led him to contaminate the surfaces in there, and she scrubbed her palms over her face.

"Oh, good Lord," she groaned, pivoting and practically running out of the room, so great was her haste that her coffee was left behind. Muttering about the grossness of it all as she left, she failed to see the amusement in her leader's eyes. Chapman couldn't help but laugh at her plight; adult though she was, it was always fun for him to poke the childish side of Jeanne every now and again. Conducting a final search of the cabinets, he found a bowl big enough to haul everything in, and so he tossed it all together for easy carrying. Gathering up the bowl and the juice he had found, he'd just started toting his goods down the hall (and deliberately taking the turns away from the central computer command rooms, for the younger woman's sanity) when he very nearly ran into Jacques. He barely bit off a growl in irritation; seriously, of all the days for his teammates to be up and awake at that hour, it had to be that one?

Intense brown eyes ran over him then, taking in his lack of attire and the evidence of substantial sustenance in his arms, Duquesne spiking an eyebrow at it all. Joe said nothing, simply shifted his basket from arm to arm, waiting for his teammate to decide on his next move. Jacques quirked his lips, quiet smugness and a form of pride coloring his features.

" _Cherchez la femme, oui?_ " he inquired, folding his arms over his chest confidently. Joe blew out a breath; he should have known better than to think his liaison with Carter would go with minimum notice, especially now that it had risen to the new level it had. Nothing more to do than brazen it out, he supposed.

" _Oui,_ " he agreed, pleasure and satisfaction exuding from him. The heat in his blood flushed through him as he recalled the delight on her face, the fever of her eyes, and he could not help but feel it. "Definitely _oui_."

The Swordsman grinned widely at him, raising his fist for a congratulatory bump. Once he was obliged, he stepped out of his leader's path, grandly gesturing for him to continue on his way. With a polite nod, Joe slipped by, but before could get too far, the other man raised his voice.

"Be careful, _mon ami._ As they say, wrap before you tap!"

Eyes widening, he whipped his head around, but the Frenchman was already walking towards the kitchen, his shoulders shaking with repressed laughter. Glaring outright, Chapman shook his head hard, purposefully facing forward and heading directly to the private elevator in the back. As a seasoned agent, a veteran in his own right, and a leader for one of the world's elite specialist teams, it should have been down right impossible for anyone to get the jump on him in that regard. That was before he'd met Duquesne, however; before he'd met the lot of them, really.

"Still better than MI6, still better than MI6..." he muttered to himself, the words trailing off once he entered the lift. Once on the appropriate floor, he moved quickly towards his flat, determined not to encounter yet another member of his team before he wished to. Fiddling with the number pad and punching in the code, he made it inside without any further embarrassment dealt out. Crossing through the living and rounding the corner for the hall, he came to a full stop in the doorway of his bedroom, entranced by the sight before him. Sharon had woken up, her body arched into a stretch, though her back was to him and therefore cut off a good portion of the view he might have liked to see. Golden hair cascaded to her shoulders, fluffed up to remove some of the flatness forced into the night before (not that she'd minded, so far as he could tell in the moment). The bare line of her back, the dip of her waist as it was swathed in sheets and the duvet captured his attention, and he felt a rush of heat spike through his veins. Resting a shoulder against the doorjamb, he murmured aloud, "Much better than MI6."

Having heard his arrival back in the apartment, Sharon turned her head in his direction, the true warmth in her gaze off-set by the slight, lascivious smirk on her lips. Dipping her chin almost bashfully, she pulled her legs back onto the mattress, hand going to the bedclothes and pulling them up demurely. Turning fully to face him once she was covered, she let the warmth grow further, with it invading all of her features. Her smirk turned genuine as she looked him over in kind, Joe's scruff and rumpled dark hair complemented by the satisfaction in his gaze. Spying the loaded foodstuffs in his arms, she chuckled lightly, tipping her head to the side.

"What was that?" she asked him, brushing down her locks once more with her free hand.

A smile stretched over his lips, the expression his only explanation as he strode over to the bed, his bounty dropped on the end. Cupping her face, he bent and caught Sharon up in a deep kiss, the resolve to keep her with him for the rest of her vacation hardening as he pressed her back into the sheets.

* * *

 **A/N:** A little early this week, since I have a gala event that I have to do for work on Monday night, and I didn't want to be late for you guys. So we get a little overseas action here. In a couple of different ways...hey-o! (Sorry, that made me laugh at myself. Because I'm that much of a dork.:-P)

For awhile, I've been wanting to do a chapter touching on the other team, since I don't want them to be forgotten in the midst of everything else. And also, I wanted to bring a little balance to it all; though I'm not the biggest fan of MCU Sharon Carter (she is so much more in the comics, and frankly, it does not reflect all that well in the films, in my opinion; the way she's written there, literally almost any background character could've stepped in and taken her place at any point, which is a disservice honestly), I wanted to do something about the romantic angle since it does not apply to her in this universe. I think Joe Chapman would be a nice complement to her, in this canon. For anybody who is still wondering what Joe looks like, I've basically face-claimed Barry Sloan. So all you _Revenge_ fans out there,if any are Emily/Aiden shippers, they meet again...(No, I've never watched the show, but I know enough to know that Emily Vancamp and Barry Sloane's characters had a romantic bond.) And frankly, in my opinion, this romance is about as believable as the one set up in the canon films, so I'm sticking with it.

No Steve, Holly, or Grant this time around, save for a brief mention, but they'll be back. :)

...Can we have real talk for a minute? I just want to check in with you all, see how you all are doing. You all good? I hope so. Because I'm okay, and I want you all to be, too. Truly.

Also, I have a question for you all: how do think this is all going, so far? With this entire series, I mean. And I'm not fishing for compliments or begging you to tell me things you think I want to hear. I genuinely want to know how the whole _Of Time_ series has been, thus far, in your own opinions. I know we're already four stories and two shorts deep in this universe, but it's important to me to know how everything has come across as a whole. And I also understand that you guys tell me weekly in your other reviews, but I've sat down recently and actively considered this all. Because this has been, prior to two interconnecting stories for Sherlock Holmes (and a foray into Indiana Jones that I have since removed from this site), the longest commitment to fanfiction I've ever undertaken. Just over two years, and 830 thousand words after this chapter goes up, with all counts combined. Woah, y'all, woah. It's become this whole thing on its own, and while I love it all, I do need to keep myself grounded withal. And you guys do that for me; you always have, from the start. So please, definitely let me know. I know this all sounds like a kiss-off, but it's not, I promise! There's still so much left for me to tell, so don't worry, I'm not going anywhere just yet!

A couple more things, and then we're done, I promise...I have written a new journal entry for Livejournal, one that gives a full cast list, extending all the way through from _At Day's End_ until the present story. You can check it out, if any of you are interested in the face-claims/casting choices I've made for particular characters as this series has gone on. You can access my Livejournal by going to my main page here and copying and pasting the link for it (and replacing the "dots" with actual dots, because this site hates links).

Lastly, I've also begun a little side project: a modern, real-world AU involving Steve and Holly, called _Four Seasons_. Updates will be sporadic, as this fic has first priority, but the first chapter is up, if you would like to check it out—provided you haven't already. It can be found under the My Stories tab on my page. :-)

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any of the pop culture references/locations mentioned in the text (Marvel comics, Liverpool F.C., 49 Cafe, the London Eye, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	10. Chapter 10

Holly huffed out a breath, passing a hand over her forehead as she backed up from the stove. Mentally, she was reviewing the list in her head of all the things that had to be done for the day, and was delighted to find there was not much left. Thanksgiving was being had at their house again, for their immediate family and those who could claim to be Steve's extended. She sensed that this would likely be the case for the holiday for the remainder of their time in the area; though it had never been explicitly stated by any of them, Holly could see that her home was slowly becoming a haven for the team, a place for them to fully let down their walls and be themselves for a few scant hours. Not just superior beings, but the humans that still resided beneath. That's what she liked to think, anyway, she mused to herself. Even in the privacy of their quarters on the base, there was always the sense of eyes watching, every movement and behavior tracked, and while JJ was on tap for security purposes at the house, too, Holly knew it wasn't nearly at that level. Blowing out a breath, she stared down into the pot of potatoes she'd mashed. Peeling them had been a bit of a nightmare, given how her son had been fussy earlier, but as she tasted them, she thought the effort was worth it. Last year, she and Steve had settled for store-bought victuals, and while that sufficed, she did not wish for that to happen again. (And the idea of enduring the stress of hosting a potluck-style meal for a major holiday held absolutely no appeal; Steve's arguments in favor of his friends contributing that way were met with hard resistance from Holly, and was something that they worked past...eventually.) Her mother had left a handful of recipe cards for her when they'd come out for Christmas last December, and she was able to sort through them to find the ones that could be used for Thanksgiving as well. The planning for the day had kept her occupied when work was quiet and the publisher had let the emails peter down. And, she conjectured silently, at least she had a bit of help.

The team, for once, would be engaged in fixing a meal in place of a world catastrophe, and by all accounts, they hadn't done badly.

Steve, in between the pair of them checking up periodically on Grant (the little guy decked out in miniature corduroys and button-up shirt, his vest with a train stitched on the front, was freakin' cute, in her opinion), was responsible for keeping an eye on the meat options, both turkey and ham set up in roasters out in the garage. There was no way, in her estimation, that she could get any size turkey and have it be enough with two super-soldiers attending the meal, so it was decided that it was better to have options. Sam had arrived around eleven, attending their gathering as his mother had gone South to stay with his aunt and Kay had made a flying trip home to see her family. Natasha and Bucky were hot on his heels, Romanoff's reserved smile melting little by little as she spoke with Holly, asking what was left to be done. The three of them had aided her earlier on, the redheaded beauty taking control of the stuffing while Wilson and Barnes took care of the sweet potatoes and green bean casserole, respectively. All five were eventually well engaged with the odds and ends of the dinner, the straggling dishes brought out and cooked as soon as the others preceding were finished. All occupied the living room currently, Wilson snarking at Bucky for hogging the armchair yet again and the pair of them getting put in in their place by Natasha, her mother tongue sliding in with the English without any trouble. Nick Fury walked into the kitchen then, shaking his head as he forged a path directly to the coffee maker. Fetching a mug from the overhead cabinet, he quickly poured himself a cup from the nearly-full carafe, tipping his chin at her as he took it and wandered back the way he'd come. She nodded, her gaze flicking to the bags of rolls the director had brought. At least he'd done that much; Holly had fully expected him to fly in, eat, and shoot out again, his assessing gaze taking in all and cataloging what he'd found for future use. She had not refused Steve when he invited the man, either that year or the one previous, but she still could make very little headway with him beyond what was on the surface. It made her wonder. Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to the inward head-count in between checking off the food, darting around the kitchen as she checked under lids and in dishes.

The Vision had taken on the on-call duties for the holiday, expressing sincere thanks for an invitation but telling them it was not necessary to do so. ("This particular holiday seems to inordinately focus on consuming mass quantities of food, which would ultimately be a waste on me. Your sentiments are appreciated, though," he'd told Steve when asked, a small smile gracing the android's lips as he bowed out of the proceedings a few days beforehand.) Wanda would also be with him, with the promise of stopping by later in the afternoon for dessert if everything remained stable. Jane Foster would not be coming, either; she had a standing invitation with Dr. Selvig and a Darcy Lewis, made months in advance, it turned out. Maria Hill had another engagement, but implored one or the other to devour a piece of pie in her honor. Lastly, she thought of Tony and Pepper, wishing they had taken them up on the offer of coming out. Pepper had to decline, regretfully if the tone of her voice was anything to go by, but her family had begged her to come home and to bring her erstwhile boyfriend to their festivities. Stark had conceded, though by all accounts, it had seemed that he would have rather broken bread with Bucky on his left and Maximoff on his right—Pepper's father had a very low opinion of him still, and it made gatherings like that awkward. Awkward enough that he would rather deal a man with whom he'd not gotten along with, and a woman who did not get along with him outside of mission work. However, he'd grumbled (having butted in on the call the two women shared) that he would most definitely be coming up the week after for training and meetings in regards to several ongoing projects. New Year's, he promised, would have a distinct Stark flavor, and she took that to mean the base would be hosting another massive party again in a month's time.

Music from the record player began to filter in, and the happy crows of her son echoed as Uncle Sammy swept him up and tickled him, as she wondered about the final two who would shape the rest of the gathering. Just then, a car engine rumbled and the grind of tires crunched up the driveway, and she smirked as she placed a lid atop the potato pot, getting her answer as voices called out to one another and feet pattered up to the rear of the house.

The back door swung open, a burst of laughter following, though it stopped abruptly as it clicked shut. Facing the new arrivals, she found herself glancing downward as she smiled in greeting. Scott Lang had come, a little later than he'd projected, his coat and hat thrown on haphazardly and a store-bought pie in hand (a little dented, but still edible). In contrast, the little girl before him was straightening her own coat, gloved hands buried in the pale purple folds of the material that stood up around her neck. Removing her hat for her after sliding the pie on the nearest counter, Scott crouched and unzipped her jacket enough so that her face could be seen. Big, dark eyes stared up at her, though they were a few shades lighter than her own. The red flush in her face most likely was not due entirely to the cold of November that they'd trudged through, Holly surmised, and she gentled her smile further. Straightening back up when the child told him she could do it herself, like a big girl, he grinned sheepishly. Invited though they were, Scott always acted a little out of place, like he feared being thrown out within the first five minutes of being there.

' _Well, because it's happened before,'_ his brain spat up at him, but he mentally shook it off. Nobody out there knew that had happened, and he wasn't about to out himself in that regard. Standing behind his girl, he leaned a little and placed his hands on her shoulders.

"Hey, Holly. This is my daughter, Cassie," he said, introducing the pair. Glancing down at her, he bent a bit more and asked in a careful, gentle tone, "Wanna say hi to Mrs. Rogers, honey?"

The little girl nodded once, her dark braids bobbing as she conceded to her father's request.

"H-hello," she said, sticking out her hand as she'd been taught. Though Cassie had recovered admirably from what had happened over a year and a half ago, she still marginally uncomfortable talking to strangers. But he knew Holly well enough to know she would not do anything to his only child, anymore than he would do anything to hers. Therefore, he was able to squeeze his daughter's shoulders encouragingly as Holly crouched lower to her level and took her proffered hand.

"Hi, Cassie. It's nice to meet you," she returned warmly, and was rewarded with a slight grin. Flicking her gaze up at the girl's father for a second, she continued, "I heard that you flew out from California all by yourself yesterday. That true?"

Cassie nodded again, that time with pride and her smile growing. The door snapped open and shut again, Steve holding the roaster pan for the turkey. While the little girl answered her question, Holly guided him around the guests and towards the kitchen island, listening intently.

"Uh-huh. Well, I didn't fly the plane, but I got on and off by myself." The little girl went on to confess that a flight attendant had kept an eye over her for it, a nice lady who had handed her over to her father at Albany after a bumpy flight. Holly gave a low hum, telling her how cool it was regardless, and Cassie agreed. Tilting her head up, she looked at her dad, her smiling dimming briefly. "Mommy said I could come for Thanksgiving with the Avengers, but not Christmas."

A flash of something underneath the happiness streaked over her face, and Holly barely suppressed a wince at it, Steve coughing and shuffling behind her. That time, she did look at Scott, and the older man's humor had drained somewhat. Squeezing his daughter's shoulder again, he pressed a kiss into her hair and sighed.

"Christmas will be better at your mom's, Peanut," he replied to her statement, his tone indicating that it had been discussed before. Holly felt a bit of her stomach twist, hearing an echo of a conversation she'd had herself in the past. Context was different, but the tenor remained the same. A palm was laid at the small of her back, the thumb rubbing small circles, and she didn't have to turn to see Steve's look of commiseration. Still, Lang kept his expression pleasant, tugging carefully on the the little girl's sleeve. "I know, because I'll be there."

Cassie dipped her chin, but it did not erase the sadness lurking there. "Unless the world needs help."

A few seconds of quiet followed that, and the father could do no more than swallow hard, the corners of his mouth struggling to stay curved. Clearing her throat, Holly moved away from her husband's touch, tapping the little girl on the shoulder.

When she had the girl's attention, she inquired mildly, "And have you met all the other Avengers yet?"

Turning her attention onto Holly again, Cassie's previous good mood began to return as she spoke.

"Yeah, yesterday. I met Miss Nat and Wanda, and Mr. Rogers and Mr. Barnes so far," she told her, ticking off the names on her fingers, Steve recovering enough from the earlier conversation to announce that was true. On the last name, though, she screwed up her face a little. "He's kinda grumpy." Holly had to button her lip fast at the astute assessment of the eight-year-old; Bucky was in the next room, after all, and it wouldn't do to burst out into laughter at his expense. She also avoided glancing at the two men in the kitchen, knowing they would probably be holding in humor as well. The little girl shook her head before running her gaze over the older woman, scrunching her brow. "Are you an Avenger, too?"

Holly tilted her head to the side, shrugging a shoulder. "No, I'm not."

"Oh." The statement was made without judgment, her word accepted as it was. However, that did not stop Cassie from looking at her with wide eyes, canting her head as well. "That's okay. A lot of people aren't. I'm not one, either."

"Ah, so it's just us, then? Cool." Holly held out her hand, waiting for Cassie to step forward and give her a high-five. When that was accomplished, and the little girl was giggling a little, she confided, "I'm looking for a non-Avenger helper for a minute. Think you could do that for me?"

Excitement lit up her eyes, and the child's mouth stretched into a broad smile. "Okay, Mrs. Rogers."

"You can call me Holly, sweetie," the older woman invited, patting her arm and retuning her pleased expression. "You go get your coat and boots off, and then you can help me find the cookies I've got in the freezer to go with your dad's pie."

At once, the child agreed, eagerly pulling at the snaps and zipper on the front of the coat. Holly chuckled internally; it seemed like her emergency batch that had been baked at the last minute would come in handy, now.

"Or I might," Scott teased his daughter, helping her get her coat off. Grinning back at Holly, he proclaimed, "I'm always down for cookies."

She tilted her head to the side, seemingly sizing him up as her dark irises glittered under the lights.

"Nah, I'd probably press-gang you into the real hard labor."

Shucking off his own coat, Scott pivoted fast and clambered away. "Beating a hasty retreat as we speak."

Snickering under his breath, Steve shook his head, brushing down the coat he still wore as they watched the other fellow exit the room.

"Run fast, buddy," he muttered under his breath. Striding up to his wife's side, he planted a peck on her temple before following. "And speaking of buddy, I'm gonna go check on ours quick."

With a quick nod and smile shot to the little girl pulling her winter boots off as well, Steve stepped into the living room, the greeting he gave his son floating over the music. Grinning softly to herself, she beckoned for Cassie to follow her to the fridge. Directing the kid to grab up the two green containers towards the back of the freezer, she waited patiently as they were brought out. Two large plates were pulled from the cupboard, as well as one of the chairs from the table. Climbing onto the seat, the little girl was high enough to start helping her open everything up and set them out to thaw on the plate. Letting Scott's daughter take control of the project, Holly asked her about the school year so far, what her favorite subject was, and what she thought of the base since she'd stayed there the night before. Cassie, picking and choosing the placement of the shaped sugar cookies carefully, answered her with alacrity, her initial shyness evaporating the longer they spoke. The activity of the house ebbed and flowed around them, the second roaster pan with ham brought in and the commander complimenting the child on her work. A pretty blush stained the little girl's cheeks as she thanked him, and she fairly hopped down and skipped when Holly declared their work finished for the moment, smiling and inviting her to follow into the living room. More hellos were exchanged, with Bucky and Natasha renewing their acquaintance with the girl, and Sam greeting her with enthusiasm (which was returned; she hadn't had the chance to meet him the previous evening, since he was out on mission with the Vision at the time). When it came to Nick, though, Holly was surprised when the older man's expression softened significantly, asking the child how she was and listening to her attentively. Cassie was more at ease as the seconds passed, and when the giggles and gurgles registered, she seemed happier still. She hadn't expected a baby to be in house with all those big adults, but there was one. Staggering over to him, she asked Holly and her father for permission to play with him for a minute. Looking over her head to the mother of the little one, Lang got his answer in the form of a nod.

"Alright, Peanut. He's a baby, remember, so you gotta be gentle with him," Scott admonished her mildly. When his child rolled her eyes at him, his lips pressed hard together to stem a laugh.

"I _know_ , Daddy," the little girl retorted, long-suffering and infallible as only an eight-year-old could be. Even so, Cassie kept her touches and words careful when she approached Grant. Kneeling beside his swivel-seat bouncer (he was big enough and strong enough to upgrade from the regular one), she tapped one of the light-up buttons, the music for "If You're Happy And You Know It" churning out. It clashed horribly with the record on deck, but by that point, it was nearly white noise to Holly—it was either that or let the constant replay of nursery songs drive her nuts, since her son was able to play with those kinds of toys now. Delighted, Cassie started sing along to it, taking Grant's tiny hands in hers, wide eyes staring at her as she did so. When she was finished, the little guy flashed her a big, gummy smile, one that she returned wholeheartedly as his tiny feet pushed him in a bounce. Turning to look at her father, she proclaimed, "He's cute."

Unbeknownst to her, the other adults in the room shared grins at her words; even Barnes was not immune to the charm the little girl possessed, for a few moments, at least. They maintained their guise of light chatter, though, so as not to make her self-conscious, Natasha leading the way on that by inquiring after Wilson's latest escapade with the automaton. Several minutes passed in that fashion, with Cassie either encouraging Grant to press buttons and such on his seat, or dandling other toys before him and letting him grab at them, both watched over by their respective parents. Steve eventually came back into the room, announcing quietly that both the turkey and the ham had been carved up and plated, the rest of the dishes ready to follow whenever they were ready to eat. Hearing that, Cassie pivoted on her seat, peering up at the blond man and his wife.

"Can I sit by him at dinner?" she asked, her face bright and open.

"Please," her father intoned under his breath, the corner of his mouth turning up.

"Please? Please, Holly, Mr. Rogers?" she amended, turning to them and pressing her palms together. Her brown eyes were ever-hopeful, and her tone remarkably polite. Not fooled by the tactic in the least, Holly and Steve glanced at one another, questions traded in silent conversation. Soon enough, the brunette woman inclined her head, kneeling down and fetching up her baby as she did so.

"Sure. You can be on one side, I'll be on the other," she said, granting the little girl her wish. It would take a bit of finagling, wedging the high chair at the table, but it wouldn't be impossible. Patting her son's back, she warned Cassie, "Just keep an eye out for flying food, okay? It has the chance to go everywhere with him. Doesn't it, Granty?"

Having just hit the four-month mark, the baby was to be started on preliminary solids. It would be an experiment, one that she was not certain would meet with much success, but she was determined to try.

"Okay!" Cassie exclaimed, more than pleased to have gotten her way on the matter. The little girl jumped to her feet, pounding back into the kitchen to get it all set up. Snickering fondly, Holly shook her head and insisted that the rest come along as well. Steve had taken it upon himself to stack the good dishes on one of the counters, utensils beside it and the food lined up to be delved into individually. The others loaded their plates before adjourning to the table, a new one to replace the old one brought up from D.C. Once everyone had found a place, Holly fetched up the jar of baby food and the tiny spoon she would use, another deep breath taken as the next wave of the day prepared to wash over them all.

 **xXxXxXx**

Nick Fury reclined against the padded back of the futon, taking refuge in the upstairs office. The camaraderie below, while not out of control in the slightest, could be overbearing at times. The dinner was something of a success, or at least he figured that the Rogers' certainly thought so. The worst that had happened was the baby spitting up his solid food, and Barnes and Wilson trading jibes before getting well-timed kicks to the ankles by Romanoff. Lang exacerbated the problem by laughing at them both, and he took it upon himself to deal a kick of his own. A verbal chide came from Holly, but he detected the smile she was biting back, and Steve had rolled his eyes. The feeling of family permeated the air, one that at once enveloped and isolated the director. It was something he held himself apart from for much of his time, the sense of safety and security the word brought to mind something he preferred to keep to himself. Still, he allowed himself to indulge in it somewhat, participating in the chatter and keeping an eye on every kid surrounding that table. Now, though, he felt he'd earned a bit of a reprieve, to ponder everything and assess on his own.

Well, not that he was totally alone in the space. The baby was in his arms, his turn to be had with the little one once the others had a chance. Perched beside him on the futon was Lang's daughter. With Fury giving their parents the time to mingle with their friends (as well as serving his own purposes in that regard), she'd tagged along, having taken a shine to Baby Grant and wanting to stick by him as much as possible. At first, she'd brought in a few stuffed animals from the nursery next door, bopping and dancing them before Grant, before she started to explore the new space. The desk yielded very little, the laptop there closed and off. Across the room was another television, one of the older models that was still box-shaped (it killed something inside Nick's soul to admit that box televisions were now considered old; what did that make him, then? Ancient?), its stand housing a small DVD player and a handful of movies. Discovering a good portion of Disney films in the stack, the kid seized the chance to fire one up, insisting that Nick had to watch with her. Deciding he could give the others downstairs a few more moments of peace, he resigned himself to cutesy animations and an insipid plot.

Now, roughly an hour in, he realized that the plot actually wasn't all that bad. The cartoon spun the tale of a young woman taking her father's place in the army, to protect him and to find herself, and all told, it wasn't very bad. And the girl beside him obviously was taken with it as well.

"I wanna be like Mulan. She's awesome!" Cassie announced, practically bouncing beside him as the cartoon woman onscreen grabbed up a rocket and began sprinting towards the advancing Hun army. A chuckle rolled through him at that, warmth blooming in his chest at the little girl's evident excitement.

"Agreed. You can be, if you try," he told her, tilting his head and considering the kid. Far be it from him to limit anyone's wishes, he thought. Staring down at her, he mused that something in the girl, whether it was her posture or the little tics of hers he'd observed over the course of the past few hours, stood out. She had potential, just as much potential as her father did. Little legs kicked then, and he shifted the youngest Rogers to lay upright against his chest, tiny fingers plucking at the collar of his dark shirt as he snuggled in. "Maybe with less singing. And be careful when firing off rockets. If you aren't, this could happen to you."

His free hand came up, pointing to his eye-patch, and the little girl beside him gasped.

"Really? Woah."

"Yeah," he remarked flippantly, shaking his head in good humor when she focused on the screen again. Without batting an eyelash or even shifting his position, he called out again, that time towards the half-closed door. "In or out, I can't concentrate on the movie if y'all are staring."

Realizing she'd been well and truly caught, Holly made her way fully into the office, shrugging a shoulder and smiling apologetically. No doubt she'd come up, wondering where he'd gone with her baby. A familiar, sympathetic pang registered inside him, but he did not indulge in it.

"Just making sure everything's alright up here," she stated simply, tucking her hands into the pockets of her jeans. Nodding to her baby as he nestled against Fury's shoulder, she inquired in a low voice, "He's not being fussy?"

Nick canted his head in denial, taking the opportunity to sit up fully. Cassie, deeply absorbed in the movie and the tides of snow washing over the mountain after the young Chinese woman had launched her rocket at it, hardly noticed as he rose.

"Not too bad," he reported, crossing over to her and bouncing the little boy with each step. Examining Grant further, he assuaged the young mother, "Cried for a bit, but he's good, now."

Glancing back up, he spotted the raised eyebrows on the brunette, and furrowed his in response.

"What?"

A blush decorated her cheeks, but she continued to meet his eye as she explained, "No offense, but I never thought that you would be, well..."

The older man hummed in his throat, a sardonic look tossed her way. "There was a time in my life when I did more than just ride herd on a bunch of agents."

"You rode herd on children." It was not a question; she was voicing a suspicion that had likely been brewing and bubbling over the course of the afternoon. A suspicion that, as he dipped his chin, was actually a fact. The way he'd opened up to Cassie, the way he held her son...as though he'd done it before, had done it many times before...

"A child," Nick specified, eye focusing on the middle distance as he spoke. "Had a boy myself, Mikel. Smart, stubborn as all-get-out...I learned more about keeping on top of sticky situations from him than from any mission I've ever been part of."

The distant pride in his voice was unmistakable, but there was also another level, something darker and harder beneath it that could barely be heard. A portion of his sentence stuck at Holly, and several seconds passed as she pondered as to why. Understanding dawned on her face, something Nick could not stem or defend himself against.

"You said, 'had,'" she murmured aloud, to her horror. Fury's gaze lost focus again, latching onto the ground. The streaks of sadness, hurt, and anger were in his face as he glanced down, refusing to be buried and hidden for a few seconds. A sick feeling flooded Holly's gut, a flinch flickering when he looked up again. "I'm sorry."

Minutely, the older man shook his head, his face creasing into something somewhat resembling impassivity. The streaks were still there, dancing around his iris, but he merely patted Grant's back and inhaled deeply.

"Fifteen years, but sometimes it feels like it just happened yesterday. I can't say I've made my peace with it; it's something I would never wish on my worst enemy." He paused to swallow, the memories of his loss sticking in his throat even then. His family had already been broken when he and his ex-wife divorced, but losing Mikel was a worse shock by far. Squaring his shoulders, he returned to the present moment, telling Holly simply, "But I get by, day to day. Try to make sure others don't experience that pain. Make sure my grandson won't, when it's his turn."

Holly blinked, the evidence of the new shock surfacing in her face. "Your grandson."

"Little Nicky. Or Nicholas, as he prefers now. Nineteen-year-olds can be so touchy sometimes. At least he was a few months ago. I'm hoping college might have tempered his attitude." Nick frowned a bit, but the set of his features did not erase the resurfacing pride in his voice. "Or maybe it's worsened; depends on how rigorous Stanford is nowadays. I'll know for sure at Christmas."

Holly blew out a low whistle.

"Wow," she murmured, absorbing all that he said. Inside, she was reminding herself that the man before her was a master spy, someone who could fabricate an entire false existence out of thin air and not bat an eyelash. Still, something in her gut told her that he wasn't telling tales. Maybe it was the loosening of his posture, the shutters falling out of his gaze. Perhaps it was the way he was holding her son, years of comfort and control in his grip, his surety in the gesture saying as much as his words did. Whatever the reason, she did not get the sense that Nick Fury was lying to her.

The grief in his eye was not manufactured, and she didn't think him heartless enough to fib about a dead son.

That he would lie to her in the future was a given; her own personal investigations and Steve's stories told her as much. Or at least he'd do so by omission, if it served his purposes. But then, he was choosing honesty, a choice that was as deliberate as it was poignant.

"I do have a personal life," he said, deadly seriousness in his voice as he lowered his tone. "But I have kept it personal for a lot of reasons."

His free eyebrow arched the barest fraction, all the implications and silent questions roiling in his mind loading the gesture. Taking a couple of deep breaths, Holly inclined her head a fraction.

"I understand."

"Good," he returned, inhaling sharply and pulling himself up to his full height. Purposefully, he tipped his chin in the direction of the little girl still absorbed in the movie on the laptop. "Now, do you mind if this little guy and I get back to watching one young woman as she saves China?"

Shaking her head, Holly merely reached out, smoothing down her son's hair to lie right again. "Go right ahead."

Another nod, and the fellow turned back to the futon, the eight-year-old now looking at them both curiously. Clearing his throat, Nick purposefully brushed away the emotions that had slid through the cracks of his internal lock-box. Not that either the little girl or the grown woman could find physical evidence of it. Looking calm as ever, he plopped down, turning the baby around to sit and watch the movie with them.

"Alright, kiddo. Could you rewind it to when the avalanche started?" he asked Cassie, meeting her gaze evenly. Soon enough, she nodded, snatching up the remote for the player that had abandoned until then.

"Okay, Nick."

After being frozen in place for a moment, Holly turned on her heel and retreated back down the stairs. What she'd seen, what she'd been made privy to, turned over and over in her mind, even when she rejoined the other adults. Wanda had since arrived, a plate filled with leftovers and a side of pie being picked from as Scott showed off pictures from the class play Cassie had been in, his ex-wife having forwarded them a few days ago. As Sam took the cue from his teammate and started in on his own travails in school with plays and pageants, Holly shimmied into the last bit of open space on the couch beside her husband, pressed up along his side enough so that she could rest her chin on his shoulder. She remained deep in thought as the minuted ticked by, before she felt his nose bump against her temple.

"Everything alright up there?" Steve asked her quietly, nearly whispering so as to not draw attention away from the story being told. Blue eyes focused on her face when she drew back to look at him. A tremor of concern lit his irises, and she took his hand in hers, squeezing in reassurance.

"All things considered, yeah," she promised, truthfulness filling her as she settled her head on his shoulder and letting the voices of their companions—their family—filter around her.

 **xXxXxXx**

Bucky inhaled deeply, roused from his dozing suddenly. Eyes remained shut, though he did start to stretch his limbs. The little body resting on his chest made him pause, clarity striking him. After Fury had come back downstairs with the kids, he'd surrendered the baby back to his parents, citing needing to get back to the helicarrier and saying his farewells then. More chatter echoed around him after the older man's quiet departure, and the little guy changed hands as ever. Soon enough, he'd been passed Grant, who had decided he would be the best one to snuggle up and take his nap on. A part of him had panicked slightly, had shot furtive glances to the boy's parents, but the reassurance in Steve's eyes and the faith outlining Holly's features, stilled his voice. Instead, his flesh hand stabilized the little fella as he sank back into the cushion, the hum of his girl's voice from her perch to his left on the arm of the chair soothing him further.

Something about the house, whenever he did have the chance to visit, had that effect on him, allowed his mind to rest and his soul to become a little less burdened for a short while. It had been that way since his release from rehab, when Steve and Holly had first offered their home as a haven to him. While he no longer lived there, having moved into quarters of his own on the base, the warmth and the openness of the place remained, filled him every time he returned. It was like coming in from the rain, or out of the cold. The only other times he felt that way was when he and Natasha were alone, sinking into each other's company, leaving behind titles and personas to be James and Natalia for a few precious moments.

Even with the rug-rat camped out on his chest, he still felt a form of peace wash through him.

Wondering what had woken him, his ears pricked up minutely as Lang muttered something to his daughter, good-byes needing to be exchanged. Inwardly, Bucky wondered at the time; the warmth of the sparse sunlight could no longer be felt through the window behind him, so he had to assume that the early darkness had finally arrived. Cassie let out a small whine of disappointment, but the shuffling of cloth and thumps of boots came afterward, and he exhaled slowly.

"Can I come see Grant again this weekend before I go home? Please?" he heard her ask, sweetness laced liberally in her question.

It took some doing not to let his mouth curve at her eagerness, but he maintained his guise of sleeping. All told, the kid wasn't bad, neither of them were; he just wasn't used to them anymore. The memories of his own siblings were foggy and distant, very few breakthroughs pressing upon his mind. He had to rebuild the tolerance he'd had back in those days, since it was clear that children were bound to be a part of his life from that point on, in one way or another.

Steve hummed low, and the floorboards shifted as he (most likely) approached the little girl. "I know tomorrow you've got a full day with your dad, but if you'd like to come to lunch with us on Saturday, you're both welcome."

"That'd be nice," Scott answered after a few seconds, and he could imagine the guy sporting a baffled grin—his awe of Steve had not quite worn off, not even after seven months of working with him. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Where, where should we meet you guys?"

Confirmation between the Langs and the Rogers' to meet at the diner in the nearby village passed, the plan set in time for the little girl to clap her hands happily. Footsteps faded as farewells were traded, the back door clicking open and shut in his hearing. A warm chuckle floated through the air, melodious and smooth.

"Ya did good, kid," Natasha's voice cut in then, subtle approval underneath the layer of humor she'd dealt her words. Holly giggled at that, and he could picture the eye roll she no doubt sported as she answered.

"Glad to have your seal of approval, Natasha."

Sarcasm aside, he could hear the affability in her tone, and he knew that she had taken the words to heart. The two women were not the greatest of friends, but they were much easier with each other than they had been in the past, so he'd been told (from multiple sources, including the direct ones involved).

Listening closely, he only heard Natasha's steps when she was directly beside him, and then it did not matter. Lips pressed to his cheek, the softness and tenderness of the gesture accompanied by a sharp poke to his shoulder. If he weren't already awake, that certainly would've done the job, he mused to himself. Opening his eyes, he was met with a smirk bowing his lover's lips, a knowing glint in her ocean-colored eyes as he blinked up at her. She hadn't been fooled, not in the least, but the discreet wink she gave him indicated that she wouldn't tell.

" _Medved'_ , it's time to go," she murmured instead, giving him another peck before drawing back. Tracing a finger lightly along the baby's sleeve, she insisted, "Give _Solnyshko_ back to his mom and dad."

The frown on his face morphed into a lopsided grin, and he managed to push himself up, both hands bracing the boy as he stood. Hi quick gaze darted around the room, his ears bent to listen to the rest of the house; Wilson and Maximoff must have left some time ago, if the quiet beneath the voices was anything to go by. Dipping his chin minutely, he lifted the baby away from his chest, a small whimper coursing out of him as he did so. He understood, at least a little, he thought; stepping out of the haven and back into the world that he was part of, it could be enough to drag him down, sometimes. Even if it was for the greater good. Even if it was time spent assuaging the scars and the sins of his soul.

"Later, pal," he told Grant, smirking a bit when sleepy blue eyes blinked and shut again, the pacifier in the little guy's mouth still being worked at. Passing him off to his friend, he and Steve exchanged friendly pats on the back before coats were gathered from the hall closet. As he pulled on his gear, he spied Holly approaching out the corner of his eye. She didn't force herself nearer, didn't place herself in their paths. Unobtrusive, but there if she was needed, much as she had been since they first crossed paths nearly three years ago. Still, there was more below the surface, which she pulled on to make things happen. It was something he had discovered about her over the last several months, but it was thrown into sharpness every time she extended her hand out to him, without prompting or ceremony. The welcome had not worn off, not even after all the stuff he'd put both her and Steve through on his account over the last year.

The house was a haven, but Holly had made it more than mere shelter with her husband. And while they weren't terribly close, Bucky knew that she wouldn't do so if she didn't think they were worth the time, if he wasn't worth the effort.

All of that dawned on him in that instant, a gradual evaluation blooming over time then. Unsure of how he could express that to her, he merely waited as Natasha thanked her for having them, a small hug exchanged (yet again, progress for both women), before stepping forward and scooping Holly into one of his own. He felt her body stiffen in his hold, shock rippling through her even as her arms rose and curled around him. Metal fingers clinked quietly as they folded into a fist against her back, a tiny rap of his knuckles in her sweater communicating all that he couldn't tell her. Well, with the exception of a single word when he drew back and let her go.

"Thanks."

Big brown eyes blinked rapidly at him, the dark brows rising and bunching up the scar that sat on her forehead. However, it was the tiny grin that came to her lips that he was looking for under the healthy layer of surprise. Behind her, he caught the glimpse of relief and approval in Steve's gaze, the confirmation that his best friend and his wife were not such great odds as he'd feared. A butterfly-light touch caressed him between his shoulders, and he could practically feel Natasha's silent support for the situation.

"Uh, you're welcome," Holly eventually breathed, and was treated to a small grin from the brunet man before he took his girlfriend's hand. The redheaded beauty bid them both farewell once more, final nods given as they exited the house and trekked through the crisp, November night. Once Bucky and Nat were out the door, and the rev of a car's engines speeding down the driveway faded, the married couple relaxed, Steve resting a hip against the nearest counter and swaying a little with Grant and Holly leaning back on the island, arms crossing over her chest. In unison, they blew out huge breaths, soft laughter petering out of them.

"That went pretty well," he proclaimed, his wife smiling wanly at him.

"Yeah." Her agreement was capped with a dull look. "We're ordering in next Thanksgiving."

His free hand came up, forefinger extending and pointing at her. "Hey, you're the one who said no to the potluck idea."

The muted glare she shot him had his spine stiffening slightly. "We are _not_ having that conversation again."

Sighing, he relaxed his stance a little; that was a fight that definitely did not bear repeating. "Okay, okay."

Holly exhaled deeply, her features relaxing and her head turning to take stock of the kitchen. While the dishwasher had already chugged through a cycle for the one they ate off of, the pans and pots used for the meal still had to be taken care of. He could already see her mentally calculating how long the chore would take, and she canted her head.

"We better get all this cleaned up."

"How about we take a ten-minute break first?" Steve suggested, glancing down at the snoozing babe in his arms. He'd had a big day, after all; being passed around from person to person, eating the paste that was called baby food for the first time (smelled disgusting, though his wife had insisted it was merely chicken and chicken gravy), and playing so much with Cassie really had tuckered him out. Flicking his gaze back up, he could see the lines of tiredness in Holly's face, too; she'd been running around, attending to nearly everything since she'd woken that morning. So had he, truth be told; whoever said holidays and domesticity were simple must never have hosted any form of get-together in their lives. Carefully smoothing down a wrinkle along the back of his son's vest, he murmured, "Looks like Grant has the right idea here."

"But..." she began to object, sighing when she was met with an ice blue wall of resistance, "alright, fine. Ten minutes."

"Ten minutes, doll," he confirmed once again, his palm going to the small of her back and propelling her back to the living room. The playpen was pulled out of the corner it had been stored in, pushed to be closer to the couch and chair. As Steve settled the baby into it, Holly turned the volume down low on the record player, a soft melody barely humming above a whisper. When he was content that Grant was still sleeping soundly, he turned around, ready to go to the couch. He was pulled up short by his wife preparing to drop into the armchair. Shaking his head, he crossed the room and gently clasped her wrist, tugging her towards the sofa with him. "Nope, c'mere."

"What if I want the chair?" she asked, the teasing lilt surfacing rapidly in her voice. The grip around her wrist became firmer, and was joined by one pulling at her waist. Tumbling onto the couch beside her husband, she conceded, "Alright, fine!"

Not satisfied with perching on the cushions, he guided them both to lie down, their legs becoming entwined as she rested atop of him. Crooking an arm underneath his head, the other curled around her waist, contentment puffing out through his nose in a sigh.

"Happy now?" she faux-grumbled against his chest. She lifted her face then, and while he couldn't hold back on the hilarity he felt, he did school his expression into something more deadpan.

"Ecstatic."

Holly snorted at that, poking him in the side with an impish grin. "Brat."

"Bearcat," he retorted, lips curving then. Her eyebrows inclined, a glimmer dancing over her eyes in the low lamplight.

"Oh, haven't heard that one in awhile."

"Just lay down, _mo chro_ _í_ ," he commanded lightly, fingers sliding into her hair, loosening it from the pins and the pull of it back into a bun for the day. Lightly massaging her scalp, he exhaled as she smoothed her cheek against his shirt. Her own fingers fiddled with the buttons and her breathing becoming steadier as she relaxed into him, and he chalked it up as a victory before closing his eyes. Ten minutes would pass quickly, and he would not waste the opportunity to be still with her.

* * *

 **A/N:** Made it back to the States for this chapter, and just in time for the first winter-esque holiday to roll on through. I like the idea that Steve and Holly's house is becoming (or already has become) a sort of haven for the others on the team; definitely a place for them all to be without being judged or watched overmuch. And little Cassie Lang gets to be in on the action a bit; she's a cutie-pie, I swear.

In the comics, Nick Fury did have a son named Mikel. However, the idea of a grandson named Nicholas was adapted from the comic plot of another son called Nicholas Fury, Jr. Here, he's Nicholas Fury the Second. Yep, there more than one of them in this universe...

We are edging ever-closer towards Christmas fluff territory...brace yourselves for the cuteness...It won't be happening in the next chapter, but it will be coming very, very soon.

Quick translations for a couple of words said by Natasha and Steve:  
 _Medved'_ ; Russian, "bear."  
 _Solnyshko_ ; Russian, "sunshine."  
 _Mo_ _chro_ _í;_ Irish, "my heart."  
Bearcat; Jazz era slang term, meaning, "a hot-blooded or fiery girl."

Thanks for all your feedback and honesty regarding how I've been doing so far for this series. I genuinely appreciate the support and help you all have given me in the past, and will continue to do so for the future. :)

I don't own anything from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, Disney, _Mulan_ , Stanford University, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	11. Chapter 11

"Alright, that's it," Kay Szymik said, the resolution in her head agreed upon out loud. Holly Rogers's eyebrows rose, scrunching back the scar upon her forehead. That first Friday in December found Kay in the archives department of the Avengers base, her chin propped up in one hand and her fork trailing through her chicken salad as she listened to Holly talk. It was their normal routine, one they had struck up when the women had both discovered they would be stationed there after the events in Sokovia, and one they kept up with for well over a year. They caught one another up on their personal lives, starting with the most obvious of Kay's bright blue hair being shorn into a pixie cut. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, one that she was actually quite pleased with, and Holly concurred, fingers patting absentmindedly at the low bun gathered at the nape of her neck. The conversation had since moved onto their separate Thanksgiving escapades, with Holly telling about the sweet friendship her baby had already struck up with Scott Lang's daughter. When she told about Nick Fury actively taking care of the kids as well, Kay had leaned forward in interest, stowing the knowledge away for later perusal. That day was the only one they could make that week, as Kay was neck-deep both in a couple of different testing projects as well as doing some follow-up on search and rescue efforts beings performed in Italy. The Inhuman rarely had to balance work between her two different departments, but when they hit at the same time, they hit her hard and made it impossible to pin her down for long. Holly, as her friend, knew this, and could only how much more difficult it would be for Sam, given how the two were dating. Still, she'd finally gotten things locked down, and was able to make the trek to the little office on the lower levels of the base.

The last few minutes, though, the other woman had retreated into her mind, mulling something over and debating internally before reaching a decision. Having caught Holly in the middle of a bite, she chewed as fast as she could before she could inquire further.

"What?" the brunette asked, mouth still partially filled with noodles.

"I'm officially abducting you for the night," the blue-haired agent declared, jabbing a forefinger at her as she finished chewing and swallowed. "We're gonna go out, hit the bars—"

"All three of them in one night? I don't know," Holly intoned sarcastically, smirking and shaking her head. The nearest town to the base did not boast much of a night life, and it was well-known to everyone working there. If one wanted to have a good time that wasn't almost exclusively family-friendly, one had to head out to Albany, Saratoga Springs, or Gloversville. Kay was not deterred by her interruption, and so ignored the joke.

"—And have some fun, take a break from all our duties," she completed her speech, hands flat on the desktop. Her black eyes were boring into her friend's, imploring her to see the necessity of the situation. That Holly was loyal and a devoted mother was beyond question. However, Kay did not want her to fall prey to the idea that she would only be that from that point onward in her life. It had happened to a few of her acquaintances, all good people but losing themselves in the course of changing their lives. As well as that, she herself had come off a personal week from hell, being run ragged to help get equipment and armor updated while simultaneously trotting across the globe and back to stabilize endangered civilians. An evening away from it all would do them both some good. Denial spiked in Holly's irises, though there was also a bit of longing there, too. Seizing upon it, Kay patted the desk, turning her palms up and tempting her again.

"A girls' night out. You need one, I need one. Let's do it."

For a long moment, the brunette sat there, eyes wavering as she considered the proposal. As her face creased, Kay had a minor tremor of worry float through her, that she would ultimately say no. Soon enough, though, Holly tipped her chin up, a slow grin curving her lips.

"I...I suppose it couldn't hurt. Let me talk to Steve, let him know."

Silently celebrating in her head, Kay leaped upon the chance to hammer out the details with Holly, messages and texts traded with others who would possibly be interested. Excitement began to pour out of the younger woman as well, her adjustment to the plans they were making dawning on her little by little. When they parted company, they made the resolution to meet up at the Rogers' household before heading into town, and things would progress from there.

Once back home, and even after she'd fed Grant some dinner and was in the midst of changing, Holly did feel a few moments of worry.

"You sure you're okay with this?" she called out through the bathroom door, her struggle to change clothes and apply make-up cut off from her husband as he sat in their room. Having phoned Steve earlier (technically against the rules, but what her supervisors didn't know wouldn't kill them, and it had been quick, anyway), they already hashed out the fact that she would be leaving him and the baby for a few hours. A little part of that seemed unfair to her, in her own mind; he had yet to go out with the boys beyond extra training or needing to stay behind to monitor a mission. As well as that, she knew he would also be worried for her safety. She would be putting herself out there, out in danger if anyone was of a mind to try anything. On his side of the door, Steve cast a weary, indulgent grin at the panels.

"Yeah. You wanna go, sweetheart, then go," he said, spreading his hands in a gesture that would have told her it was her decision, if she were able to see it. He wasn't going to order her to stay at home; he knew better than to imply that his wife could or could not do what she liked. And, worry though he would about her, he reckoned that she would not be totally alone. Her friend was a trained agent, and she had self-defense courses on her side. She was about as safe as she could be out there (without him going with her, of course, and he knew better than to shoehorn himself into the plans that were already made). Rising from his seat on the mattress, he strode closer to the partially-shut bathroom door, leaning against the wall and laughing to himself as he heard her humming. Clearing his throat, he crooned, "Get all dolled up, paint the town red. We'll be all right."

And they would be. Grant was not difficult to care for, at his age, and Steve was well-equipped to deal with anything that could be thrown at him. Scratching the back of his neck, another thought occurred to him, and he tapped a thumb against the wall.

"Just do me a favor: if you swing through town and hit Roscoe's at any point, bring home some pie."

A laugh rebounded off the walls of the bathroom, catching him and making him chuckle, too. He wasn't about to apologize for the request, though; the diner had a fantastic reputation among the base workers for a reason, and the pie was delicious.

"That, or chili cheese fries. We'll see how I'm feeling," she promised him, the clatter of something being set down by the sink hard on its heels.

"I'm good either way," he told her, shrugging to himself. A couple of shuffling steps came, and the door swung open. The admiration in his expression increased as he swept his gaze over her get-up. The sweater dress and leggings she'd donned in place of the work outfit she'd picked earlier molded to her body, her long hair pulled out of her face into a ponytail (something she did more and more often, as having it in her face annoyed her). Sliding his gaze down to the chain and dog tags (his, and a territorial spark flood through him at the sight) resting on her chest, he felt his lips curl a touch more. "Well, ain't you a dish?"

She shrugged and rolled her eyes at his words, but the tiny smile she wore could not be suppressed. Wrapping his arms around her, he kissed her soundly for a few moments, interrupted only by the blaring ringtone spewing out from her phone. Breaking away from his embrace, she tripped over to the nightstand and retrieved the device, feeling the hot slide of her husband's gaze on her form as she read the message. It was Kay, telling her that they had arrived. A blaring honk from a car horn followed soon after, making her jump. A croaking cry came from down the hall, and Holly tutted under her breath as Steve grimaced. The pair of them exited the bedroom, with her snatching up her purse and keys from their spots on the dresser while he gathered up Grant from his crib, calming the little guy down again.

"You two have fun," he told her when he met her on the landing of the stairs, the baby resting against his shoulder as he rocked him slightly. Shrugging her coat on and zipping it up, she flicked her fingers through the air.

"It'll be three. Nat's coming along," she elaborated, catching him off-guard. As was she; she had not expected Natasha to agree, thinking perhaps she would want to stay with Bucky and relax at the base if she weren't busy with a mission. Instead, she had expressed a desire to join them, apparently needing a girls' night as much as they did (Wanda was unable to come, having been dropped by a fairly heavy cold in the last twenty-four hours and wanting to rest up). Tilting her head as she thought, she also noted, "And Jane said she'd tried to meet up with us at some point in the night, so hopefully four."

A furrow came to Steve's brow but it was (mostly) feigned. "Oh, now I'm concerned."

"Too late to turn back now, hon," she said brightly, kissing him on the cheek. Pecking Grant on the head, she chucked him and his father under their chins, giggling at Steve's rolling eyes before meandering to the back door. "See you later."

Waving good-bye to both her men (and feeling her heart give a little thump when Steve lifted Grant's fist to wave farewell back), she hunkered deeper into her coat as she rounded the garage to where Kay had parked her Jeep. Sliding into the back seat, she gave happy nods to the two companions already in the car. Kay's green parka was open as the heat blasted through the vehicle, and Natasha even had her black peacoat unbuttoned. Once the car was turned around and they were hurtling down the road, she followed their example, pulling down the zipper of her coat as Kay made an announcement.

"Now that you're here, we can start the festivities," she extolled, reaching out and tapping at the volume button on the radio. Switching from the station to the CD player function, she enunciated, "A night out deserves its own soundtrack."

The grind and drive of pop music began to crawl through the speakers, filling and bumping through them as the tires ground along the salted roads.

"A mix CD? Wow, we're taking this all the way to 2005, are we?" Natasha teased, bright eyes sliding to her left. Kay lifted a single finger from the wheel, her dark eyes narrowing the tiniest margin.

"I'm deducting brownie points every time you mock the night's proceedings, Ms. Romanoff."

The redheaded beauty laughed outright at that, the musical sound working in concurrence with the music.

"Didn't say a word," she said demurely, pretending to lock her lips and throw the key. Form her vantage point in the back, Holly laughed, settling in and preparing for whatever the night had to offer them.

 **xXxXxXx**

"You know, I can take care of my son on my own."

Sam and Bucky turned their heads at that pronouncement, placid expressions on their faces. After their girlfriends had taken Steve's wife out for the night, the pair of men found their way to the Rogers' house. Reports had been filed for the day, and there was no mission on the docket for the night, so they had taken it upon themselves to have a night in, just the men. Scott had to cry off, as he had a Skype date he could not reschedule (again, he'd muttered, and so they let him off the hook). The Vision had made the trek down to the city, intent on meeting with Stark and giving Peter his monthly evaluation to assess his progress. Descending upon the slate-blue homestead, they brought in some take-out from the cafeteria on the base; ribs and chicken wings, whose quality rivaled that of any chain barbecue establishment. Of course, they weren't about to do anything extreme while they met up with Steve; there was Grant to think of, after all. However, the pair of fellows still were determined to do something with their free time that did not involve backbreaking training bouts or experimenting in the private, communal kitchen to the detriment of everyone around them (a Barnes and Wilson concoction could have been used as torture implements, if they so chose, Natasha had declared when she'd had to endure such a thing one evening).

"Never said otherwise," Wilson shot back at his friend, leaning back into his end of the couch and stretching out his legs. That was a point he wasn't about to dispute; Rogers was more than capable of handing the baby on his own. Flapping a hand at the scattered take-out boxes and the bowl of chips that had been strewn about the coffee table, he told him, "I'm just here for the food, the beer, and what you've got saved on the box."

Fetching up the bottle that had been resting on the floor, he tipped it in salute to the commander before taking a long pull from it. Steve gave a low hum, eyebrows furrowing as he considered his friend's words. He was seated on the opposite end of the couch, Grant in his lap and faced toward the television set. The little guy was resting comfortably against his stomach, eyes wide and taking in the change of atmosphere when his mommy wasn't around.

Glancing over to the armchair, Steve cupped his free hand in the air at Bucky then. "And what's your excuse?"

"Friendship," the brunet intoned, dipping his chin. Wilson snorted loudly at that, rolling his eyes. The stoic demeanor dropped then, with Barnes shrugging and sipping his beer. "And the fact that both your girls managed to take mine along on a bender; I've got nothing better to do."

Scoffing loudly, the remark went unanswered by Steve for several minutes, the three grown men occupied with watching the baseball game that was queued up on the television. Steve watched the game, the plays being made and the calls tossed around. As the commentators spectated on the screen, so to did his friends, predictions tossed back and forth as they gnawed on chicken or chips. Something inside the commander felt eased; initially, and for clear-cut reasons, Sam and Bucky did not get along in the past. (To be fair, it was difficult to build a rapport with someone who had actively tried to kill you several times in a two-day time span, brainwashed or not.) Still, rapprochement had been reached, and the pair worked admirably well together, a tenuous friendship building as the days went on.

Though most of it was thinly veiled with insults and obscene hand gestures, more often than not. And just as he mused upon that, one hand gesture was flipped at Wilson when Barnes got tired of his arguing over the pitcher's performance, the other man brushing it off with one of his own. The baby hummed around his pacifier, tiny fingers curling around his father's as his tiny feet kicked out.

"These are your uncles, kiddo," he lamented in a mock-whisper to Grant, bending slightly to murmur it into the infant's hair. "A couple of fat-heads, right?"

Bucky scoffed, and didn't even bother to look at him. Instead, he spoke directly to the baby. "So says the knucklehead that's your father."

"Jerk."

"Punk."

Sam cleared his throat, pointedly coming into the conversation again. "Name-calling aside, there anything else we can do besides dickin' around here while the ladies are out?"

Barnes took a long pull from his beer, spiking an eyebrow. "What, the game's not enough for ya?"

It was a pre-recorded game from the end of summer, one that they had all missed—Sam and Bucky due to a mission, Steve due to being thrust into parenthood and concentrating on that. There were several saved to the recorder, all being worked through slowly. Granted, Steve had checked ahead as far as scores and stats went for particular teams, but he still wanted to see how it all played out.

"Well, if you really wanted, you could take a crack at the honey-do list Holly's got for me. There's a busted drawer in the kitchen that needs to be fixed," Steve suggested lightly. He glanced up at Sam, affixing a grateful grin that morphed into the smirk it really was. "You'd be a real pal."

The look he got in return was baleful, at best. Scoffing loudly, the other man snatched up another handful of chips from the bowl, chewing loudly for a few moments.

"I'm not even married, and I've already got a bit of my own to worry about," he retorted eventually, brushing the crumbs from his fingers before drinking some beer. Spiking an eyebrow at Steve, he finished. "Take care of it yourself, _pal_."

"Huh," the blond man murmured, lifting his boy when he started kicking a little harder. Holding him up to let him bounce on his legs, he turned over a thought in his head. Soon enough, he gave it voice. "Thinkin' of changing that anytime soon?"

It was a fair question, in his mind. After all, despite the minor hiccup back in April, Sam had been dating Kay exclusively for over a year and a half. From what he understood of his friend, he was commitment-minded, at least to a point. And Kay, well, from what he could see, she was very good to Wilson. Curious as to his answer as well, Bucky sent his teammate a sidelong glance, watching as he shifted in his seat and kept his focus glued to the television set.

"It's...been discussed," he conceded, a small smile cropping up as two pairs of eyebrows rose at his pronouncement. That was the truth; in the last month, he and Kay had talked about the future, where they wanted to go with one another (last spring's bump in the road had jarred them, made them see that they had to get on the same page, and fast, if they wanted to be together). Holding a hand preemptively, he continued, "For now, we're good where we are."

Nodding, the commander's blue gaze slid to the other side of the room, Wilson's following it. Under intense scrutiny now, Bucky's plain amusement drained away, and he hunkered down a bit in the chair.

"Not even near that territory."

"Fair enough. Oh, come on!" Steve's concession was interrupted by one of the outfielders attempting to glove toss the ball to second, which the fielder then fumbled. With the first and second bases successfully occupied by the time it was picked up again, the three men in the house all groaned audibly at the display. The baby squeaked out as well, little arms and legs jerking. Patting Grant lightly on the belly, Steve nodded at him. "You're right, buddy, that was awful."

"Damn straight," Bucky concurred, giving his nephew an approving nod. "The kid would make a better fielder, and he can barely sit up by himself."

"That, and the only spitball he could throw would be a literal one" Sam offered, though his gaze turned thoughtful. Scanning over the baby, he tilted his head to the left. "But with a little practice, maybe he could take on the league."

Steve sank back into the cushions of the couch, his contemplative gaze falling upon his son. The little guy was obviously too young to even consider the notion, but...he was half of him, half of his restructured genetic make-up. If Grant could throw a ball even slightly as well as his father could toss a shield, Steve thought he would have a fantastic chance at the major leagues. The boy's uncles were also looking at him, his big blue eyes blinking as he flashed a gummy smile and rocked back against his father.

"Could start now," Bucky ventured, swinging his leg down from the arm of the chair and getting to the floor. Digging into the basket of toys on the other side of the chair, he found a fluffy, white ball. Tossing it underhand, and incredibly gently, it landed squarely on the baby's lap. At once, the little fella snatched it up, bobbing it into his face and mouthing at it after spitting out his pacifier. A humorous snort shot of Barnes' nose, and he murmured, "Good catch, kiddo."

Wilson gave a concurrent nod, and he pushed the coffee table out of the way to join Barnes. Together, they rifled through the toys, finding any and all that were even remotely ball-shaped. One by one, they started chucking them up at the baby, the little guy giggling and cooing in delight as the soft toys bounced and ringed around him. On occasion, Grant would grab at one, then another, and he kicked happily, cheeks rounding in a pleased grin. Steve, enduring the barrage while keeping an eye out for any toys making a beeline for the baby's head, gave the little fella a gentle poke in the side, another giggle shooting out and making his smile broaden.

"How 'bout that, son? We'll train you up right, and you'll be on the Dodgers soon enough," he declared, a proud edge coming into his voice. Grant gave another smile, a little drool running down his chin, and his father swiped at it with a clean corner of his own shirt.

"Not the Yankees?" Wilson asked innocently from his spot on the floor. The flat, nearly hostile look the commander shot him made him raise a hand in surrender (Bucky rolled his eyes at his friend's behavior, but said nothing). Shaking his head, he muttered, "Okay, okay, I was joking. Although the Nationals wouldn't be bad as a second choice."

About to dispute that, Steve reeled it back in when he actually considered the statistics of the team. That, and how he'd enjoyed seeing them play when he had the rare chance to do so in D.C.

"...Maybe," he allowed, twitching the leg of his son's footed onesie before his friends gathered up the tossed toys and resumed 'training' the future athlete, all of them thoroughly occupied in the endeavor.

 **xXxXxXx**

Holly let out a loud laugh as she helped Natasha escort Kay from the bar, coats and gloves thrown on haphazardly before exiting out into the cold, December night. A few errant flakes were dropping, heralding a storm that was destined to spill through the early hours. All in all, it had been a great time out. Better than she had been supposing it would be, at least. Instead of driving all the way out to one of the bigger cities, they did stick to the nearby village, the bar and grill near the center of town the chose venue for the evening. It was a little run-down, but more towards the homey end of the scale, where the booths and tables looked well-used and well-loved, as opposed to decrepit. Toward the back, a small stage was set up, tiles plastered to the floor for a tiny area dedicated to dancing. A good number of the citizens had found their way to the bar that night, the joint packed in anticipation of the live band that would be playing later on. Fairly priced drinks and decent food were lauded by the staff, and the trio indulged as soon as they found an open spot.

Once coaxed into it, the Black Widow was able to let go and relax, listening and trading stories as easily as the other two were. Holly, having stuck to a pint and a half of cider, would later recall the surprising amount of personal dirt that Kay and Nat had on their respective partners, and she knew for a fact that the ones they'd pulled out of her about Steve would be stowed away in their minds as well. (She had not delved too deep into the realm of drink; the last time she'd gone too far with Natasha, she'd ended up riding a mechanical bull. She wasn't about to risk the ex-agent sending embarrassing footage of her stupid behavior to her husband yet again.) Jane had put in an appearance for a few moments, needed to be at the base early the next morning for a conference with Dr. Selvig. As the hour grew later, and shots were had, the remaining ladies had found their way onto the dance floor as the band playing for the night struck up several good songs. She deeply enjoyed being able to spend a few moments as just another young woman, alive and enjoying herself as others were. Still, incredibly late nights were something she could no longer do (and hadn't ever really done, except in emergencies), and she knew she would have to get back home before sunrise, at the very least.

As she was the one completely sober by the time of departure, Natasha was the driver, her own chuckles reverberating in the cab as she drove Kay's Jeep. The mix CD played on, the trio indulging in singing and wailing to keep themselves up and awake as they made their way along the back roads to the house. A Spice Girls song ended, and one of Lay Gaga's ad started on the opening notes as the redhead negotiated the turn for the driveway, crows of disappointment ringing around as they realized that they wouldn't be able to continue it before parking. It was easily let go, with all three woman clambering out of the cab and towards the back door (Natasha insisted on resting somewhere quiet for a little while before heading back to the base, and Holly was willing to accommodate her and Kay in that regard).

Punching in the codes and creeping in through the door, Holly led the way through the kitchen, coats, purses, and boots dropped by the table as the other two women followed her example. Her low buzz was wearing off, leaving tiredness in its wake as she strode through the arch and into the living room. She halted, taking in the sight before her as Natasha and Kay flanked her. Their men had all crashed out sometime before they'd arrived, the television churning on. The end of a serial crime drama episode was playing, the blinking of cop car lights flashing along the screen drowned out by the overhead light. Bucky was in the armchair, as was his custom, though he had appeared to have tried to fold himself into it. In the end, one leg was crooked over one arm, his metal appendage following suit on the other, and his head lolled awkwardly into the back cushion. Sam was sprawled on the floor, face-down and his arms curled around a throw pillow the he was nuzzling into. His legs were spread wide, and Holly had to step over them gingerly to get around to the front of the couch where her husband was dozing. Steve was upright, legs stretched out before him and his torso sinking back into the cushions. Looking down at him, her eyebrows rose at his posturing; his neck would get a kink in it, from the way his head was resting. What really struck her was the ring of soft toys around him, some on the sofa and a few in his lap. One arm was curled protectively around Grant, who had fallen asleep on his father. A little snuffle came out of him, his pacifier bobbing, and then his tiny eyes blinked open, head lifting enough so that he could see her. The little guy's face lit up as he saw his mother, and she couldn't help herself.

"Hey, Baby Boy," she stage-whispered, plopping onto the cushion beside her snoozing husband and resting son after brushing some of the toys onto the floor. Reaching out for him, she was met with some slight resistance from the sleeping father holding onto him, but with her whispers of it being alright, she soon enough got Steve to unconsciously relent. Scooping Grant up, she made sure to plant a peck in his hair, directing her alcohol-infused breath away from his face. Steve, meanwhile, continued to sleep; sometimes, he could be woken up by the barest sound, but he was evidently in his 'dead to the world' end of the spectrum at that moment. Glancing back at the girls, she gave them a playful wink before turning back towards him. Holding up Grant with one arm, she tapped her finger against the end of her husband's nose. When he frowned and jerked away in his sleep, she went further, taking his earlobe between her thumb and forefinger. Giggling, she raised her voice a few notches before tugging on it. "Stevie, sweetie, we're back!"

The combination of her touch and her voice finally jerked Steve totally out of slumber. To his credit, he didn't go very far, but he did have to catch himself before he tipped to the side. Her announcement broke through to Bucky and Sam as well, both men awake and groaning against the overhead light as they did so. And, to her fiendish delight, Natasha and Kay were barely choking down chortles at the display. Scrubbing at his face, he sat forward fully, raking his finger back over his scalp as he woke up.

"Holl. Honey, you're..." With sleep blinked fully away, his gaze focused intently on her. His eyebrows flew up in shock, and his spine stiffened. "What the hell happened to your hair?"

Pink flooded Holly's face, her free hand coming up to comb through the loosened strands. Where she had left the house with her long tresses secured back in a ponytail, she'd returned with them decidedly shorter. The brown waves were only an inch or so above her shoulders, enough to pull back if she'd needed to, but otherwise much shorter. It had been parted to the right, twisted and teased ever-so-slightly. The astonished look on her husband's face heated up her cheeks and made her heart thump, more in nervousness than anything else.

Stepping up to the couch, Natasha leaned over the back and patted her shoulder. "I cut it for her."

"Said she was sick of it being so long, so snip-snip," Kay blurted then, dark, almond-shaped eyes nearly glowing as she settled against the wall.

Reflexively, Holly clutched the baby closer, his mild cooing calming her.

"D'you not like it?" she asked her husband, scrutinizing his expression. The shock was wearing off, little by little, and being replaced with something deeper, darker. Red started to burn the tips of his ears, and he shifted in his seat.

"I, I..." he paused, clearing his throat and glancing around as their friends listened in for his answer as well. "I do, but you let Nat come at you with scissors?"

The redhead hooked a thumb over to the agent leaning against the far wall. "Kay wanted to dye it."

That drew Sam's attention, shaking his head at his girlfriend as he rose up from the floor. "Kayla Nari."

Confronted with the use of her full first and middle names, and the minor disapproval all around, the blue-haired agent raised her hands in a gesture of defense and mock surrender.

"Hey, she said no, and I respected that," she stated implicitly, a frown blossoming then. Holly had no doubt she was thinking about harshly her suggestions had been shut down, but there was nothing for it. The haircut was enough; dyeing it the fire engine red she'd wanted Holly to try was too much.

"C'mon, this is probably the least worrisome way the night ended. Particularly one that I've been involved in," Natasha pointed out, striding across the room and perching primly on the arm of Bucky's chair. She looped an arm around his shoulder, planting a peck at his temple as his metal hand settled on her thigh and he let out a slow sigh.

"Well, you did get into that argument with the bartender at Walter's. In Russian," the blue-haired agent asserted, going over to Sam and letting him pull her back against his chest.

Bucky, now intrigued, spiked an eyebrow at his girl. "What's the story behind that, sugar?"

Natasha rolled her eyes, arms crossing over her chest. "The guy had some very strong opinions about the Avengers. Specifically me, and what I may or may not have abandoned since leaving Mother Russia."

"He gave us all shots when they stopped shouting," Kay interjected yet again, a pleased dip of her chin following. "All Stoli."

Cradling the baby closer, Holly muttered, "Some of us had more than others."

Knowing precisely whom was being talked about, Kay chuckled, hooking a thumbs-up in the air before directing it back at herself. From behind her, Sam exhaled slowly, his head dropping to burrow at the base of her neck. Natasha was not as concerned; she been privy to many a party, and helped many a drunk person before (in various ways), and the younger woman was not all that bad, truth be told. Even if she had tried to make it her mission to drink them all under the table in the pursuit of letting loose for a few minutes.

"She's young, she'll learn," she said, flapping a hand in the air. Sam snorted while Kay laughed again, shifting in his arms.

"She's thirty; I think that's a lost cause by this point," he proclaimed, feeling as Kay gripped his t-shirt hard. A minute ripping sound tore through the air, the collar suddenly a v-neck when it had not been before. Tipping his chin, he mumbled, "And on that note, let's get you home, baby."

Holly turned her head toward the window, just able to make out the swirl of snow beyond the panes from the spill of the living room's lights, and then drifted over to her husband. Following her line of sight and thought, Steve coughed once, canting his head at their friends.

"Might as well stay, all of you. It's late, and we have the space," he said, gesturing towards the upstairs office and the door to the basement. Affixing a look on both Barnes and Wilson, he stated bluntly, "You guys get to duke it out over who gets the bed or the futon, though."

The new captain and the Falcon stared at one another for several long moments, silent arguments made with twitches of the mouths and inclining eyebrows. After awhile, Bucky breathed out sharply, jutting his chin at the basement door.

"You know what, you take the downstairs room," he told Wilson, pushing himself out of the armchair and threading his fingers with Natasha's. Tilting his head toward the young woman in the other man's arms, he elaborated, "Privacy and your own bathroom in case she..."

Kay turned a menacing, bleary eye onto Bucky, understanding what he wasn't saying in spite of her state. "I'm not that drunk, thank you, Mr. Terminator."

The impact of her words were somewhat lessened when she appeared to trip on air, sidestepping into her boyfriend and just about knocking them both to the ground. Meanwhile, Barnes' features were flat.

"People are never gonna stop comparing me to movie characters with robot parts, are they?"

"Nope," was Wilson's immediate answer, followed by Natasha's shaking head and tiny grin (and Holly racked up a few mental points for the ex-assassin understanding the reference).

That pronounced, the couples started to separate, heading off to their rooms for the night. Steve went about the business of putting Grant to sleep in his crib while Holly tripped off to find pajamas for the others to borrow. Bucky had left a few shirts of his at the house after he'd officially moved to the base, so he and Sam were covered in that regard, but the girls were a little trickier. Digging through her drawers, Holly managed to find a couple of her pre-pregnancy shirts that would work, along with a spare set of bottoms and sweatpants. With those divvied between Natasha and Kay, she left them both to it, with Sam bundling Kay into the spare room downstairs and Bucky rifling quietly through the closet in the office for spare blankets and pillows. The flutter of activity calmed significantly by the time Steve and Holly made their way into their room. Changed into pajamas themselves and firing up the baby monitor, they crawled under the covers. However, Steve was not of a mind to go right to sleep. A single lamp was kept on, and he leaned on his elbow, looming over her as she relaxed on her back, her buzz completely gone by then.

"When did you find the time to do this?" he wondered, blue gaze skittering over her hair, his fingers following soon after. The ministrations were careful and gentle, and Holly nearly sank into it. Knowing he wanted an actual answer, though, she sighed.

"Before we even made it to the bar," she stated quietly, pushing a little more of the part away from her face. Lifting a shoulder, she went on, "We were in the car, not too far out. I was talking about how cute Kay's pixie cut is, and about wanting to get a haircut soon myself, and then Nat convinced her to turn the car around, saying she could take care of it at the base. And, uh, she did."

She mimed the scissors motion with her left hand, and Steve gave a halfhearted chuckle. That Natasha did, and then some. Having prior experience with having to fix herself up (saved her a fortune whenever she felt like changing her look, since she'd learned how to do a variety of cuts and treatments on her own time), Nat had instilled trust in Holly, trust that she could get the job done alright. The result was more so, in her eyes, but it wasn't her eyes that she was concerned with at the moment.

"Pretty impulsive," he murmured, cutting through her musings and eyebrows arching a fraction. Holly hummed, brow furrowing as she shrugged again.

"Not really. I mean, having Natasha do it was, but I've wanted to get it cut since before Grant was born. I just...seized the opportunity." Pausing, she dropped her focus onto the bedclothes, fiddling with the edge of the sheet. "Tell me, is it bad, really?"

She knew how much he'd liked her longer hair, how much he'd like to touch it and comb through it.

"No," he assured her, the tenor of his voice causing her to meet his gaze again. Her breath hitched slightly in her throat as she spotted how dilated his pupils had become. Fingers combed through the strands, a handful gathered at the base of her skull. Eyelids drooped, and he tilted her head back a fraction. "I, I like it. I really do."

Hearing the catch in his throat, her mouth curved into a grin, her eyes half-lidded. "How much?"

Steve blinked, a slow, feral smile stretching his lips as he leaned down, and thus he answered her question rather thoroughly, if not verbally.

 **xXxXxXx**

Saturday morning dawned, and while she was alone in their bed, Holly did not feel lonely in the slightest. Glancing at the clock, she knew that Steve must have gone for his usual early run, no doubt accompanied by Sam—if not Bucky as well. He was welcome to the additional work-out; she certainly felt like she'd gotten enough of one in the small hours, she cheekily thought. Rolling out of bed, she picked her way over to the closet, fetching up the flannel shirt and shorts she typically wore to bed, a snatch of song hummed under her breath. Fingers combed through her shorter hair, taming it after the mussing it had received, and privately called the night a success. Nodding at her personal victories, she slid on the shorts and buttoned up the flannel in time for a crow to come in over the monitor. Going down the hall (and peeking through the sliver of the office next door to find it and the futon empty), she crept through the nursery, greeting her baby boy with smile and a kiss, soothing his croaks with her care and touch. Heavy steps creaked on the stairs, and before she knew it, she felt hands wrap around her waist, Steve pulling her back against him. The scent of sweat and heat rolled off of him, but she nestled back into him, his kisses on her cheek and neck welcome. After receiving her share, she turned and held their son up to him for his dose of morning greetings, Steve nuzzling Grant's cheek and chuckling as the baby giggled.

After changing Grant and getting him into a clean outfit (little navy pants and the baby baseball jersey her parents had gifted him, at Steve's insistence), she pattered down to the first floor, the spring in her step commuted into bouncing her baby and cooing nonsense at him. Steve, having accompanied her down the stairs, broke off, citing the need to straighten up the living room before joining them as the excuse. The kitchen was already occupied, with Bucky at the table, perusing the New York Times app on their tablet while his girl was stationed by the coffee maker. Stirring sugar into one cup and creamer into the other, Natasha set her gimlet gaze on her, the ocean in her irises lighting exponentially. Her focus darted over the telltale signs on Holly, and a smirk bloomed on her lips.

"Told you it would be fine," she muttered as Holly strode over to the cabinet beside her, the formula tin pulled from its spot. The younger woman had expressed her concerns about the reception her new cut would receive, particularly since it wasn't done by a stylist, but the Black Widow was of the opinion that she had nothing to worry about. Due to her private examination, she was proven entirely correct (the red and purple mark peeking out under the collar of the other woman's shirt was the most telling evidence of that). Snickering low, Holly shuffled Grant to lay a little higher against her shoulder, his pacifier bumping into her as he nestled nearer her neck.

"Alright, chalk up a point for yourself, Ms. Romanoff," she informed her compatriot, going about the business of fixing a bottle for her son. A sly grin was on her face; yielding the point was done easily, given with how right she had been about it all.

"Already done," the redhead stated, her smirk growing warmer as she sidled over to the table, two mugs in hand. Setting one before her partner, she slid into the chair next to Bucky, hushed whispers in Russian passed between the pair as they nursed their cups of coffee. Holly took a spot at one end of the table, crooning softly to the baby and feeding him, her husband coming in and planting a tender peck on her temple before taking a load of trash over to the can. The basement door burst open then, with Sam escorting a haggard-looking Kay through the hall and into the kitchen. Blue spikes ringed around her head as her face remained pressed into his shoulder, the woman relying on her boyfriend to get her to the table and properly seated. Exhaustion and a form of nausea flitted over her features when she finally turned to face them all. She may not have been totally wasted the night before, but she did have enough to merit a significant hangover, and it was plainly evident that she was in the midst of those churning seas. Resting her elbows on the table, she cradled her head, Sam rubbing soothing circles along her back. Black eyes opened slightly, and she darted a look around to her companions.

"Food, pills, water. In any order," she sputtered, her voice gravelly. Weariness ringed her bloodshot eyes, and she pressed her fingers into her temples. "Preference is towards pills first, though. Please."

Holly bit her lip, shaking her head against the slight humor of seeing her composed friend so disheveled. Popping out of her chair, she bounced and rocked Grant as she crossed the room to the cabinet nearest to the sink. A glass came down and was filled rapidly, with Steve passing her the Ibuprofen bottle from the shelves above the refrigerator (from the first-aid kit stationed there; they had several in the house). One-handed, she worked the pills out of the bottle, palming them and grabbing the glass as well. Sam took the water from her when she came over, letting him set it down before Kay as she placed the pills beside it.

"Here's two, the third's being worked on," sh promised her friend, resuming her seat as the other young woman swallowed down the Ibuprofen and a hearty slug of water. Immense relief seemed to swim over her then, and she relaxed into Sam's side, her chair scooted closer to him to accommodate it. Bucky and Natasha had been keeping a silent eye on the display, but they visibly perked up at the notion of food coming their way. Well, at least until skeptical glances were shot in the direction of the missus of the house.

Sharpness pinched Kay's face as well. "By who?"

"By someone else," Steve spoke over Holly as he made his way to the pantry, his voice low in deference to the state of Kay's head. The blue-haired woman nodded slightly, another spark of relief floating over her features.

"Oh, good, nothing will be burnt, then," she breathed, and the others had to stifle unbidden bouts of laughter. Holly's lack of ability with breakfast food, with exception of cereal, was nearly legendary at that point. The baby in her arms let out a tiny chuckle, and Holly pouted playfully at them all.

"Hmph. Grant always appreciates my breakfasts," she harrumphed in impish defense of herself, holding up her son and letting him push against her legs to bounce. From down the table, she spotted Sam smirking and snickering to himself. Shooting him an inquisitive stare, he lifted a shoulder at her.

"Yeah, he does, because his generally comes from—"

A cuff rebounded off the back of Sam's head, cutting his words off effectively. Steve stood beside him, the necessary items for making pancakes in one arm, and the other hand jabbing a finger in his friend's face.

"Don't ever finish that thought," he groused, unapologetic as Sam scrubbed at his new injury.

"Out loud," Bucky muttered after that, the amusement on his face wiped away when Steve circled the table and cracked him one, too. "Ow!"

At once, Wilson and Barnes were on their feet, following Steve to the stove, smacks and slaps traded even as they helped him retrieve bowls and pans from the cupboards. The brunette glanced over at them all, a minute giggle breathed out her nose before she smoothed her expression out.

"Dorks," Holly pronounced, almost imperiously. The curve of her mouth, though, took out any possible sting the word may have carried. "Dorks that save the world on occasion."

"I know," Natasha concurred, her stoic demeanor softening as she looked at the brunette. Reaching over, she smoothed a wrinkle on Grant's onesie out, and concluded, "We're all a bunch of weirdos."

The emphasis, the inclusion of her into the circle, struck Holly to the core. Unable to help herself, she returned Natasha's smile, the even footing she had obtained settling in her mind as she pressed a kiss against her son's cheek.

"That we are," she agreed, the blue-haired agent to her left lifting her water glass in commiseration. A silent toast went around the ring of women, their men oblivious to it as they poked and jabbed each other in the process of making breakfast. Strange ones they may have been, but as the pancakes were plated and the flow of conversation shifted around the table, Holly had to conclude that she preferred it, if strangeness had brought her there.

* * *

 **A/N:**...I dunno. I was feeling a girls' night vibe for this chapter, and I went with it. It was fun for me, at least. And the guys plotting Grant's future in baseball is just an added bonus, haha.

Personally, I have nothing against the Yankees or the Nationals. In my headcanon, Steve is a diehard Dodgers fan, despite their move to L.A., and will remain so until he shuffles off his mortal coil. And because of that love, he conversely hates the Yankees. To me, it's just baseball, and it's whatever. Football is where I get particular about my teams.

Double update day today: I have also posted a new chapter in _Four Seasons_ as well. Check it out if you feel so inclined.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, Jeep, MLB teams, etc.)

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!

EDIT: Reposting this chapter due to the site's weirdness last week during the typical posting day. I just want the date to be more accurate. No worries, Chapter 12 will be coming on Monday/Tuesday, as is typical. I have decided to start a Twitter account specifically for my profile for this site. I will use it to promote chapter updates and such for my stories, in the hopes that I can keep you all in the loop that way. My Twitter handle is PhanProTweets, and I would love it if you followed me. I don't want site issues to prevent you guys from knowing what's going on, and I hope it will all work out.


	12. Chapter 12

Peter Parker glanced up at the clock, noting the time and clearing his throat. As agreed, he'd arrived at the Avengers Tower to fulfill his hours. In between his duties as Spider-Man, and school, he still maintained his position as Tony Stark's lab assistant, and he'd arrived in that capacity after the school day ended. An email had been sent out the week prior, that he would be spending his time that day in early December in a performance review. As it was technically his first job, he found himself to be nervous. How did those things go? Should he have worn a tie or something? Unsure about it, he nervously adjusted collar of the button-up shirt he'd managed to get on that morning, sitting primly on his favored stool in the space. However, it was nearly twenty minutes before Stark had shown up. The tech genius generally was on time, five minutes late at most, to those sorts of things, and Peter was about to inquire what had happened when he finally strolled in.

The look on the older man's face, though, prevented him from following through. The normal vivacity that could be found there, even when hard lines cut around his mouth and brow, was heavily subdued. The enthusiasm for his trade was dialed back, and Peter couldn't help but wonder what had happened. Still, he motioned for Parker to listen as he spoke, general lines spoken about how he'd been over the last several months, his improvements made and his goals for the future discussed. After engaging in what he would later learn was an obligatory back-and-forth, they moved onto discussion of he previous performance review.

The physical, superhero-inclined one. The Vision had come down, as per the agreement struck between him and the board of the Avengers at the beginning of summer, to measure his strength and his progress with his acquired powers. After a year of honing and developing them, the progress and prowess he had with his advanced strength and webbing techniques was clear, but he was unsure of how it was perceived by the others. According to Stark, though, he had every reason to hope that Commander Rogers and the rest of the team would be able to see how far he'd come.

"So, what's the verdict officially?" he pressed after a few minutes, unable to help himself any longer. "As far the review with the Vision goes, I mean."

And, it went unsaid, his examination period that he'd been put through after the debacle with the Vulture. Since he'd come through treatment, Iron Man had kept a close eye on his activities, even stepping in a few times to assist several times when he was out as Spider-Man. It was a light sentence, according to Representative Hawley, but it felt like a heavy punishment, at times.

"Well, you're officially off the naughty list," Stark relayed, a glimmer of his typical humor shining in his irises. He'd shown off his abilities well in the training simulations conducted the previous week. Peter had the makings of becoming a great hero; it wouldn't be long until he joined their ranks, he privately surmised. Soon enough, though, the amusement dropped away, the seriousness that had been present in him returning then. "Just bear in mind that we're all going to be watching you closely from here on out, Parker."

The teen spiked an eyebrow, snickering lamely and trying to get Stark to laugh, too. Anything to relieve the weirdness that was surrounding him.

"How much closer can you all get?"

Tony snorted, his brown irises glittering briefly. "You'd be surprised, kid."

Snapping his goggles in place, he set about examining his latest project, a modification to his repulsors that resulted in less power and energy to be used. Following suit, Peter fetched him a couple tools when he asked, the heaviness in the air not abated in the least. After several minutes, one of the repulsors shorted, dimming and deactivating before anything more could be done. Bracing himself for his boss to let loose a stream of inventive curses, the young man was shocked when Tony did no more than blow out a frustrated breath and snap the goggles off. Pitching them away, they landed on the nearest steel table, and both his hands raked back through his hair.

"Look, get this all tidied up, and then you can take off for the night," Stark told him after a couple of moments, gesturing to the scattered tools and the case he'd taken the test repulsors out of. Peter blinked at him. Tony rarely ever let him go home early on his scheduled days. If that wasn't a clue of something being wrong, he didn't know what was.

"Really? Why?" he sputtered, taking off his own goggles and looking at the older man earnestly. Had...had he done something wrong, despite being told that he was off the hook for his actions in the fall? Was something wrong with the Avengers? Or was it...Peter snapped his jaw thought before another word could tumble out, before he accidentally voiced his realizations aloud.

After all, it couldn't be pleasant for anyone to be asked if the anniversary of their parents' deaths had to do with the obvious wrongness pervading a person. It wasn't exactly a secret that Stark's family had passed around that time of year—in several days, truth be told. (Howard Stark was a legend in his own right, and the boy had a great amount of respect for him and his work on many important scientific contributions.) It made sense, the numbers added up, and he solved for X. However, he was not about to show his work, not that time.

It hit too close to home for him to do so, as it was. He couldn't put Tony through that pain, through the reminder of it and to have others from the outside remark upon it.

Oh, he was an _idiot_ , he chastised himself silently, dread and redness flushing into his face. Tony eyed him through his personal revelation, but did not press the issue.

"Don't worry about it, Pete," he murmured softly, the strength in the words compelling him to listen. A frisson flashed in Stark's gaze, but his mouth still twisted into a careful smirk. Shrugging a shoulder, he muttered, "Normally when someone your age is allowed the chance to be let off the responsibility hook, they're all for it."

Peter's head inclined, and he picked at the hem of his shirt.

"I've never really been built that way," he professed. Indeed, he'd been raised to see his responsibilities through, from an early age. Even ones that actually weren't his own to take on. As Stark dipped his chin and moved away from the table, he reached out, gripping the older man's bicep and stopping him short. Trying to keep his face neutral, he asked, "You sure you don't need me to stick around?"

Another sad smile was sent back, and Stark clapped him back on the shoulder.

"I'm sure. See you later."

"Bye...Tony," the kid trailed off as he left the room, not even a backward glance spared for him. Looking up at the clock again, the boy squinted thoughtfully. Barely an hour had passed since the initial review began, and he was dismissed. Well, once he did clean-up, of course. That was accomplished in a matter of minutes, all tools and projects stored in their proper places. Sighing, Peter shook his head, removing his notebook from his backpack and sitting down at the table again. It was the one that housed calculations and designs for his suit that he wished to try out. He'd had a few things in mind for the day, especially on the webbing that was being integrated to the sleeves and how it could aid him in his descent, but clearly the discussion he wished to have with his boss would not be happening then. Instead, he sketched out another preliminary design, an alteration to the canisters that would allow the film that secreted from him to be deployed even faster. Though absorbed in the endeavor, the little niggle that forever resided in him now (he had to think of a better name for it, soon) brushed at him, made him aware of the new presence in the doorway watching him. Jerking his head up, his dark eyes widened in surprise at the visitor.

"Ms. Potts!" he gasped, hands frozen over the papers as the CEO of Stark Industries merely smiled and returned his greeting. Naturally, he knew of her, had seen her around the Tower when she traveled to the city. Truth be told, he rather liked her; despite the steely demeanor she gave off whenever she did television interviews and such, she really was rather kind to him. Rarely did she come down to the laboratory that he worked in, and she never came when he was on his own. At least, she hadn't in his recent memory; definitely not in a power suit and heels still on, like she'd gotten out of an important meeting. Flipping his notebook shut (as of yet, she was still unaware of his superhero training, and he did wish to give the game away then), he cleared his throat and scratched at his neck. "Uh, I know Ton—Mr. Stark, dismissed me a little while ago, but I just had a few things to, well..."

"Don't worry, I won't tell if you don't," she assured him, shooting him a friendly wink. The teenager blushed, and she sidled closer to the table, her arms crossing as she adopted a serious pose. "I was actually hoping to talk to you specifically."

The boy shot her an intrigued look, and he set his notebook to one side. "What about, ma'am?"

Unconsciously, he stiffened in his seat, preparing himself for a speech. Too many times had such a thing occurred in the recent past, and he could no longer stop himself from bearing himself up for lectures or stern instructions (not just from the Avengers who checked in on his progress, but the AP teachers who expected him to perform at top capacity as well). Sensing his trepidation, she pressed on with care.

"I wanted to extend an invitation to you and your aunt to spend the holidays with me and Tony. I understand if you other things to do during the season, but we...I...wanted to let you know you both are welcome to spend Christmas Eve and Day with us, if you want."

Peter blinked rapidly, somewhat stunned by her words. After a few moments, he unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

"Thank you. But why?" he wondered. "I mean, I'm sure you have your own family to go home to."

"And we will, a few days afterward," she explained, eyes creasing at the corners. "But during the actual festivities, we'll be here."

"Still..." he let his sentence hang, intrigue coming to the fore at her confession. Pepper's light eyes brightened, and her grin turned all the warmer.

"Tony isn't the only one with eyes and ears around here," she pointed out, eyebrows raising ever-so-slightly. When Peter choked back a snorting chuckle, she dipped her chin at him. "Even when I'm gone half the time, I can see the good you've done for him. And what he's done for you. Believe it or not, you've helped him a lot over the past year you've been working together, and it's very much appreciated."

The sincerity in her words washed over him, warmed some of the coldness that had set in. It was a coldness that had existed well before his time working with Tony, formed in his early teenage years and that told him, repeatedly, about how little good a nerd like him could actually do. It was nearly silenced nowadays, but it still bubbled and brewed. Particularly when he was brushed off without so much as even a miniscule explanation.

"I dunno," the teenager remarked doubtfully, tapping the end of his pencil against the papers near at hands. After a few thudding bounces, he murmured, "Doesn't seem like I'm able to do all that much, sometimes."

"You have, Peter. Truly. In your own way, you've come through for him, and it's good to see him do the same without blowing something up in the process," Pepper noted, making the corner of his mouth lift. Waiting until he met her eye-line again, she murmured, "Thank you."

Crimson flushed into Peter's face, and his free hand came up to swipe at the part of his hair.

"It's, it wasn't a big deal. Just...paying him back for all he's helped me with," he stated, meeting her eyes after a few moments. There was more there, more than he let on about. The rush of memories of the past year, of the times he'd been pushed and prodded, and how Tony had jerked him around and jerked him back on-course despite the worst happening. Of all the chances he'd had, due to him...due to Commander Rogers, too, he mused with sudden clarity. Perhaps he really owed them both. Chewing his lip and considering all that, he glanced back at Ms. Potts, a sheepish, wavering grin on his face when he realized he'd drifted. Coming around the table, she laid her hand on his shoulder, patting lightly.

"Just let me know, one way or another," Pepper told him, her genuine smile gracing her lips again. "We would be glad to have you."

Swallowing hard, Parker nodded.

"Okay, I will. We will," he amended, and she patted his arm once more before stepping back. Several seconds of silence followed, and he let out a low sigh. Resolutely, he squared his shoulders, snatching up his papers and pencil before stuffing all into his backpack. The work could wait, be put off as Stark had requested, and it was time for him to go. Slinging on his coat and gloves, he looped his scarf around his neck before looking at Pepper again. "Tell Tony I said bye, please?"

She chuckled. "Sure thing."

Hooking her a thumbs-up, the teenager meandered out of the lab, cutting across the halls to the elevator bank. Digging his phone out of his pocket, he quickly tapped through his contacts, selecting the correct one and ringing out as he began to descend.

"Aunt May?" he called into the phone when it connected, warmth flooding through him as he heard her voice. Furrowing his brow as she asked a question, he muttered, "Yeah, no, I'm fine." Another question, and he rolled his eyes. "Yes, I only went in for lab hours today. Look, I have a question to ask."

Relaying the invitation that had been extended to them both, he listened as his aunt fluttered and gushed over it. While she had no problem conversing with Tony or anything like that, she did view Ms. Potts as quite an inspiration. To spend any amount of time with her would be fascinating, in her mind. Still, he heard the quaver in her voice, the shake that could not be suppressed, and knew that he felt it in his heart, too.

"I know, I know we haven't really talked about what we'd do this year for Christmas," he nearly whispered as he crossed from one elevator bank to the other, the last before he would be on the ground level again. "Without...yeah, yeah." He sniffed, idly rubbing thumb against the seam of his jeans for a moment as May asked the hardest question yet. Still, he did have an answer, and he gave it, hardly a tremor in his throat when he did. "I'd, I'd like to spend it here, with them and you." Silence came for several long moments, long enough for him to wonder if the call had been dropped. Soon enough, though, May asserted her presence again, agreeing to the plan of staying at the Tower for Christmas. Something akin to relief flooded through Peter, and he leaned back against the wall of the elevator as the last few floors slipped by. "Cool, I'll send you Ms. Potts' number, if you want to talk details with her. I'm making a stop before coming home. Yes, I promise to go straight to the house after."

His word given, all he had left to do was tell her the CEO's number, and leave the planning up to them. Good-byes were exchanged, but Parker's brain was already far away as he stepped out of the Tower lobby and into the cold December air. His mind was bent towards his next objective, something he'd been neglecting lately. Seeing to his responsibilities, as he'd vowed to do a long time ago, to someone incredibly special. Hopping a train at the nearest station, he took it back home, grabbing a bus on his way out of the station. Inwardly, he whined to himself about not utilizing his powers to get him there faster, but he scolded himself right back for that attitude. It wouldn't be worth the risk, not as Peter Parker. The trip was made in decent time, all things considered, and as he made his way off at the appropriate stop, he paused, staring across the street at the iron sign attached to the great arch.

Maple Grove Cemetery, it read, and he blew out a short breath before crossing the street.

The chill and the cold swirled around him, but he could hardly feel it, not when the prospect of all that was to come sat on his mind and pulled him away from it. Marching into the cemetery, he cut and crossed between markers, the polished stones veritably gleaming in the low light coming from the lamps posted along the path. Eventually, he found his way to the plot closest to the maple tree, shivering once as he stopped and read the name there. Scanning it, and the dates that still twisted his heart, he knelt in the dusting of snow that had found its way under the tree. Reaching out, his finger traced through the carved letters, a little dirt from summer still there mixing with the snow. Though it hadn't been neglected by any means, it had been too long since he'd stopped by.

Now, he had no excuse to not do so. Not when he had so much tell since his escapades a couple months back.

"Hey, Uncle Ben. Do I have some news for you," he said, tracing the name one last time on the headstone as he drew in breath, ready to update his uncle about what had happened since the last time he visited. It was another responsibility, one that he would gladly meet.

 **xXxXxXx**

Tony Stark sat in the wide lounge area of his penthouse suite, the lights lowered slightly and his expression suitably distant. As was his wont at that particular time of year, he found himself looking on the past months, the past decades, that had preceded that one. It was something he'd done with alarming punctuality ever since his mother and father passed away; locking himself away to first face the memories head-on, and then drown his sorrows in whatever way possible. Which generally meant in booze and women, at least when he was a younger man. With the exception of the previous year aside, he hadn't gone down that road for a long while. A single-malt Scotch and semi-darkness tended to do the trick presently (he wondered if his therapist would be proud of his progress, and made a note to deliberately bring it up at their next session).

All told, the past year had been...almost unbelievable, and he didn't use that descriptor lightly. From a semi-hiatus to part-time membership with the team, to discovering the truth of his parents' deaths at the behest of the man forced to do the deed and somehow being able to work with him...nearly losing two good friends...so much had happened since last December, and it all crowded in his mind with the old memories. One by one, he went through them, cataloging and compartmentalizing as the seconds ticked by, the tumbler in his hand emptied little by little. In the low lights and under the swirl of the smooth jazz played courtesy of JJ, he took it all in. Not that he did so alone, of course.

Pepper, on the East Coast now all the way through New Year's, had joined him, his solitude eliminated by the hum of calming energy that she always seemed to exude (when he wasn't driving her up the wall, he did note). Knowing his mood all too well, she did not press him to talk, or really do anything other than what he was doing. Well, other than an admonishment to get his feet off the coffee table, and asking him what he wanted for dinner, an order placed online as she went through some emails and files forwarded to her from the home office. The tremors and stings in his heart were dulled as the seconds passed, the click and clack of her fingers typing almost as soothing as the music was. Through it all, he sat and absorbed the information at hand; privately, he teased himself with the idea that Pepper must relish the quiet, no matter the source. But no, he knew better than that. He'd caught the careful looks she darted to him when she thought he was occupied with his thoughts, felt the concern and comfort when she took his free hand in hers, fingers lacing together as she pushed her laptop away and merely sat with him.

At present, she wasn't with him, though. She'd stepped out to take a call a few minutes ago, and hadn't heard her leave. However, he was all too aware of her renewed presence when she came back, the pensiveness melting into the latent curiosity as he dragged his gaze away from his glass and up to her.

"Just heard from the Parkers," Pepper announced as she sat down beside him again. Drawn out of his inner musings, he shot her a quizzical look. Slyly, she smiled and settled back into the cushions, reveling in her changing into sweats and an old tee of his. "We'll be a party of five for Christmas, once Rhodey gets in from California."

Tony furrowed his brow, tilting his head to one side as he placed his tumbler on the coffee table. "The Parkers?"

In the space of a few breaths, Pepper explained how she had invited the kid and his aunt to spend the holiday with them, provided they had no other plans on the docket. May Parker, timely as ever, had just confirmed that they would be able to stay on, thanking them both for the invitation. Taken aback by her initiative, Tony could only hum and grunt in response as she continued to lay out the plan for later in the month.

"I'll make sure the guest quarters are opened up for them, so they can stay over and not worry about trekking back to Queens. They'll be staying through from Peter's last day of school through the 26th, at least." Looking up at the ceiling, she tapped a finger against her knee as she mentally reviewed her calender, nodding once at whatever inner confirmation she'd received. With a twinkle in her eye, she confided in her partner, "I think May was intrigued by my offer to show her the personal spa facilities down on the lower levels. It would be good for both of us; I think that last merger knocked some of my discs out of whack." She stretched her arms above her head, the effort to loosen her muscles not lost on him in the slightest. "As well destroyed a few brain cells; Hanson from Marketing is such an a-hole."

At that, Tony chuckled, his silent contemplations slowing down then.

"I could take care of that for you. The spa thing, not Hanson...although..." he trailed off, letting the statement hang as he pretended to mull it over. Screwing up his brow, he clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Nah. Still I will gladly rub out a few knots, if you need it."

He made kneading motions with his fingers, eagerness beginning to lighten his face, and Pepper giggled in amusement. Dropping down on the couch beside him, she turned her back towards him, motioning for him to go ahead.

"Feel free to get started, then, gearhead," she teased, taking a brief moment to fetch her phone and laptop from the coffee table before he did so. Tony's hand came up in a mock salute before he laced his fingers together and cracked the knuckles.

"Yes, ma'am," he intoned mildly. Before he got to work, though, his palms cupped her shoulders, drawing her back so that he could plant a kiss in her hair first. Quietly, and more seriously, he said, "Thank you."

Pepper's lips twitched into a tiny grin. It was the least she could do for him. December had been a difficult month for him, ever since she'd first started working for him. What should have been a joyous time of year was, in reality, a mark of passing for him. With the specter of the anniversary of his parents' deaths looming mid-month, it could be little else; Christmas always had a sense of brittle cheer, masked easily by gleaming lights and a smooth veneer of impartiality (and, as she discovered once around ten years back, covered with copious amounts of egg nog). Slowly, slowly, she had been doing her best over the years to change that. Anything to remind him of the good that had come to pass in place of the bad was brought to the fore, at her will and behest. Especially after the debacle with the Mandarin; through that, she had touched upon the darkness that colored Tony's Decembers, and she had no wish for either of them to repeat the experience.

And, as she knew very well, the Parkers were likely to be of the same mindset that year as well. At least in part. In her mind, she could see the broken souls that needed some knitting, some sense of happiness and normalcy, and she would be damned if she would stand by and do nothing about it. It could be done, even if she had to drag Rhodey into it to help her—which he gladly acceded to, when she did ask, with a knowing glint in his gaze.

Reaching back, she patted his hand, fingers tenderly sweeping over his skin. "No problem, sweetheart."

That said, the pair went about their tasks, Tony giving his partner a good massage as she continued to check her emails and make calls for the company. Deliberately, he pressed harder when she was in the midst of an argument with one of the board members, her stifled groans and hasty reassurances that she was well over the phone line made him chuckle inwardly, and he endured her pokes at him in retaliation with good grace when the call ended.

He observed all this, admiration spreading through him and mixing with the adoration he felt for her. His company, his life, his heart had been in her hands for so long, and she had proved time and again that his trust in her would never be abused or tossed away. All she'd ever asked in return was for him to do the same: to hold her heart, to let her trust him and have faith in him. She didn't demand protection, or all his assets, or force him into compliance. It was done freely, and she only asked for what he could freely give back what he could. And in between the hours and days spent apart, in between meetings and mergers and the business of heroes, he did. Because he could not do otherwise any longer; who he once was, did not exist any longer. He was better; she'd helped him find his way to be better.

Tony Stark could not do without Pepper Potts.

Unbeknownst to him, Tony had stopped with his massage, instead folding his hands in his lap and watching Pepper avidly. Without the relaxing pulse and draw of his fingertips, she came out of her groove, sighing as she set her laptop and phone on the coffee table again. With nary a flourish, she signed off her final email, sending it out and rolling her shoulders in relief. The brightness in her eyes glowed as she looked up, and he felt his breath catch, as it had when he first began to understand what she truly meant to him.

"What?" she asked him, catching his staring and smirking at him. The sly expression slid away little by little as he continued to just look at her, the groove in his forehead that indicated intense thought deepening over the passing seconds.

He couldn't do without her, couldn't lose her. He wouldn't lose her.

He'd make sure of it.

"Marry me," he blurted then, his own eyes widening at his pronouncement even as his inner resolve had hardened. His personal surprise was nothing in comparison to the downright stunned look on Pepper's face.

" _What?_ " she repeated herself, the tremor in her voice impossible to ignore. In all the years they'd been together, romantically or otherwise, he had never uttered that phrase before. Not even when he was smashed out of his mind and liable to confess all sorts of urges and thoughts floating through his head. Looking into his eyes, she could see how clear and true he was being in that instant, even as he grinned faintly and shuffled in his seat.

"I suppose it should be a question, right?" he said, trying to bluff his way through the rising embarrassment and the mild sting of her blatant disbelief. He had told her, multiple times, how she was truly the most important person in his life. She was his rock, his savior through many trials and tribulations. Sure, maybe it had taken quite a while to get his pony to the gate, but she had to have known he wouldn't just leave her stranded. Not indefinitely. Clearing his throat, he scratched the back of his neck, faux sheepishness decorating his features. "I shouldn't have jumped the gun so quick, I swear it doesn't happen all that often, even at my age—"

The tender tone in her voice stemmed his rambling, her bright eyes meeting his fully. "Then ask, Tony."

Her hands extended out toward him then, and he took them gratefully. Thumbs swept over her knuckles, calloused pads soothed by her smooth skin. His dark gaze traced intently over her face, the few fine lines she had at the corners of her eyes gently creasing as she maintained her facade of impassiveness. The tremor of her in his grip, though belied that, knowing as well as he did that they were stepping beyond a point that there would be no return from. Reaching up, he tucked a few loosened strands of her light red hair behind her ear, cupping her cheek and inhaling deeply as his deepest reserve of courage was drawn upon.

"Pep..." he paused, shaking his head and correcting himself, " _Virginia_ , will you?"

The trembling increased in the hand he still held, and he automatically twisted in her grip so that their fingers would lace together. However, the mask she'd adopted dropped away, tears shimmering in her gaze as a slow, real smile stretched her lips. Scooting closer to him, she disentangled her hand from his, crooking around his neck and into his hair. Leaning forward, she rested her forehead against his, the tip of her nose bumping his and her chin quavering before she answered.

"Yes, Anthony."

Another memory, one so good that it eradicated the bad for an instant, was made then, and Tony knew that it would remain with him for the rest of his life as he pulled her into his embrace. Against her lips, he promised to buy her the biggest rock they could find the next day, but for the moment, it was enough that he had her, and that he was not about to lose her. Not to anything or anyone else.

* * *

 **A/N:** More of a short, interlude-esque chapter this time around, to prep and brace yourselves for the Christmas chapters (yes, multiple) that are to come. Fluff, fluff galore my friends, which I have promised since the beginning. :-P

December has to be a tough month in the Stark and Parker households, at least in this universe. At least they can find solace in each other's company!

By the way, the proposal blindsided me, almost as much as it did Pepper. Tony decided to be a little sneak about it and hit hard this time around. About freakin' time, right?

No Steve, Holly, or Grant this time around, save by brief mention, but they will be back for the next one. :)

So...a repeat of my edited notes from Chapter 11 and in my other current story: FF has been acting weird lately, in that the last chapter never sent out an update email (I did repost the chapter in the interest of keeping things slightly accurate). I didn't learn until later that it had been a problem for over a week by that point, and I was shocked. I did what I could to get the word out, and realized it wasn't enough. Ergo, I have decided to start a Twitter account specifically for my profile for this site. I will use it to promote chapter updates and such for my stories, in the hopes that I can keep you all in the loop that way. My Twitter handle is PhanProTweets, and I would love it if you followed me! :)

Also, because of the site issues, it did not allow anyone to see that my second story, _Four Seasons_ , has also been updated. It has been (re-updated again for better posting date accuracy), and I would appreciate it if those who are interested would check it out.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	13. Chapter 13

Christmastime had arrived, the Avengers base having prepared itself for its coming since practically the day after Thanksgiving. With no earth-shattering missions on the docket, and the threat of disaster relatively low (Steve marveled at the luck of that; disregarding Tony's misadventures several years previously, the Christmas season seemed to go off without any qualms, for the most part), it was determined that taking the holiday wouldn't lead to anything detrimental. The team prepared to go their separate ways; Wanda and the Vision would meet with Pietro and Crystal in New York City, as Hanukkah was at the same day that year, and Sam and Kay would be in Harlem with his mother. Scott would be off to California once he returned from his scouting mission with Natasha and Bucky, who would in turn be trekking out to the Barton farm. The base itself would close down on Friday the twenty-third, and remain lightly staffed until the twenty-seventh.

The twenty-second, however, was more of a concern for the commander. Having made the decision with Holly to fly out to Minnesota for the holiday, they had scrambled to find a suitable flight out.

Commandeering a quinjet was out of the question, that year. Now that they were commissioned not only for the use of the Avengers but the agents supporting the team, as well as equipment transfer and such things, it was nearly impossible to set up any kind of private flight without inducing massive amounts of permissions paperwork and horrifying migraines accompanying it all. And, Steve had joked, it probably wouldn't be a good idea trying to induce Tony into letting them borrow a private jet. That left them with the choices of driving, catching a train, or a public flight. It was clear which mode of transportation his wife would opt for, just for convenience's sake, and so he'd resigned himself to the tedious screening process at the concourse in Albany. Going over a few last-minute reports at work, he had escorted his wife away from her department a few hours earlier than normal, good-byes sent their way from her supervisor and the Todd fellow she often partnered with on projects. Once they'd bundled up Grant from daycare, they were off, bags already in the back from that morning and quickly cutting across the landscape to get to the airport on time. They were still a bit early for their flight, plenty of time turned over for putting the Buick into the paid parking lot and mentally preparing themselves for check-in and security.

It was a good thing they had already shipped their family presents out to Paul and Lisa's prior to that; it was bad enough to have security scanning through their luggage and carry-on bags (a backpack and Grant's diaper bag). Donning the typical outing attire wasn't quite an option, what with the snow and the cold, so he pulled his gray beanie down over his ears, his aviators pushed on and his wool coat unbuttoned as they made their way to the correct gate. Grant was all bundled up in his carrier, sleepily sucking on his pacifier as his mommy crooned down at him on and off. Her own coat was opened, her free hand making it fan to cool her off by the time they'd arrived at the gate, boarding without preamble amongst the others. Keeping their heads down and to themselves, they seemed to blend in fairly well with the other passengers, some commenting sweetly on the cuteness of the little guy as they tucked their bags under the seats and buckled the car seat in (they'd managed to book a row for themselves for an evening flight, a miracle that Holly was still praising for happening even as they boarded). Hope bloomed in Steve's chest then, that they would make it to St. Paul with minimal fuss and attention paid to them.

Unfortunately, it didn't take long for Grant's natural dislike of any form of travel, save to daycare and back home, to kick in. Once the plane had leveled out and the signal that allowed people to unbuckle their belts lit up, he launched into a full-blown crying attack. Heavy, pearly tears coursed down his cheeks as Holly swiftly got him out and held him close, Steve fumbling for the diaper bag as she tried to ascertain what could be done to help him. Quick, tense conferring between the parents had them grabbing up a bottle, hoping a feeding would be enough to ease the ear pain the little guy was no doubt experiencing. A few discontented sighs rang around them, but a few sympathetic voices filtered in and out as well; one middle-aged woman behind them had tutted sadly for the poor baby, offering advice for what she'd done to help her daughters when they were infants passed through the seats as they fed him, his distressed whimpers not stemmed for long.

Not everybody was sympathetic, however, and they were quite vocal about it.

"God, would someone shut that kid up?" someone, some fellow, groaned near the back of the section. A great huff of breath pierced the air, since the people whispering or making minute mumbles of their own had gone silent. Since the baby continued to sniffle unhappily, his mother rubbing his back tenderly in a hasty bid to console him, the guy groaned even louder. A derisive snort echoed, and he couldn't stop himself from speaking again, "I didn't pay good money to deal with this crap."

The patience in Steve, which at times could seem endless, was suddenly much shorter than before. It wasn't as if they were ignorant of their son's distress, after all. Furrowing his brow, he turned his head so that his voice could project out into the aisle, every syllable clear and concise.

"How about you shut your mouth, buddy?"

"Steve..." Holly hissed under her breath, her eyes narrowing at him. It was enough that Grant was upset; she didn't need her husband to get riled up over bruised honor or whatever. He was not the least bit intimidated (that he showed her, anyway). Instead, he merely maintained his irritated expression, an eyebrow spiking slightly.

"What?" he retorted, his tone hushed as well. She may not have been keen on him fighting back, but it wasn't in his nature to be passive when confronted. Especially not where his wife or son were involved, he had discovered. Meanwhile, the angry man's voice crowed out again, a snarl echoing in the cabin.

"Piss off," the guy growled, undeterred by several voices hissing at him to stop. He was making more of a scene than the baby was, one woman murmured. Holly's grimaced grew starker as the fellow rolled over what the others were grumbling at him, pitching his voice louder. "People shouldn't bring babies on flights anyway, always screaming, always crying. Idiots. Get the rug-rat under control."

Steve's nostrils were flaring from how hard he was trying to control himself.

"You have five seconds to shut up, pal," he warned one last time, craning his neck to look around his seat. He couldn't quite spot the fellow, save for the flap of a heavy hand, the arm encased in a dark blue sweater, from several aisles back.

"Or what? You gonna cry, too, ya little bitch?" the man sneered, a weak chuckle following. "Can't even face me like a man, can you?"

At that, Steve's breathing steadied. His resolve hardened, along with the set of his jaw as he stilled outwardly. Maintaining his deceptively calm demeanor as he shifted in his seat, he unbuckled the belt with alacrity. Holly, guessing what he was about to do, reached over and grabbed his sleeve, desperate to stop the confrontation before it began.

"Steven, don't—"

Gently, he pulled her hand off of him, a quiet admonishment for her to keep helping Grant passing his lips as he stood. Shuffling out into the aisle of the plane, the nearby passengers all stared at him as he passed, hushed whispers following in his wake as he walked down to the bank of seats the complainer was projecting from. The fellow who spoken out against the crying was easy to spot; the proud, haughty expression of disdain he sported was written all over his face and posture. However, when he saw that the father of the baby he'd derided (as well as referred to as a bitch) was not some puny little punk he could badmouth from the safety of his seat, the expression slowly died away. Steve remembered what it was like to feel menaced by bigger fellas himself, but he wasn't about to let this snot-nosed jerk get away with his behavior. Turning, the fellow gestured frantically at the flight attendant nearest at hand, nearly upsetting his tray and the empty glasses strewn about it. He'd been emboldened after hitting up the beverage cart a few times, it seemed, but now it was coming back to haunt him in the form of a six-foot-two, muscled and pissed-off fellow. The flight attendant nearest at hand strode forward, her own face set grimly as she implored Steve to not get physical—even if it was clear by her expression that she didn't necessarily disagree with his anger.

"Ma'am, it won't. I just want to have a discussion," he promised, palms up in a placating gesture. After a few seconds, the flight attendant merely crossed her arms, an eyebrow spiking as she said no more. Looking down at the complaining fellow, all thinning brown hair and beer gut straining with his deep breaths, Steve braced a hand on the overhead compartment, affecting nonchalance. His tone, however, was as stern and discontented as one could imagine it to be. "Allow me to explain the situation, sir, since you apparently have difficulty understanding." The guy's mouth flapped open indignantly, but he was cut off by the fire in the bigger man's blue irises. Unimpeded, Steve went on, "My son is almost five months old. He has never been on a plane before, so the whole change in equilibrium and ear-popping is new to him. He doesn't know what's going on, and he can't help himself; I think that would give him the right to be upset, at least a little. We are certainly trying to calm him down, and have been mostly succeeding before you piped up." Scorn filled his features as he spared a glance to the people seated in the same row as the guy, a teenaged girl staring hard out the window with earbuds in, and a middle-aged woman in the middle with her face buried in her hands radiating embarrassment. The man's family, no doubt, and they appeared just as put off as the others surrounding them. Shifting his weight, he continued, "We would be able to do so a lot faster out of respect for the rest of the passengers if you would shut your damn trap and mind your own business. Think you could do that, like I asked you the first time?"

It was almost laughable how low the guy had sunk into his chair as he spoke, the mulish set of his jaw unable to hide the fear in his eyes. However, Steve was nowhere near inclined to laugh at that moment. Instead, he narrowed his eyes further, bending even more at the waist and forcing the man to shrink into the cushions. Eventually, the loud-mouthed jerk dipped his chin in a slight nod, barely perceptible but it had happened. Inhaling deeply, Steve straightened up again.

"Good. Now, if you have any more problems with me or my family, I will gladly come find you after we've landed, outside the concourse. We could finish our discussion then, if you want," he said, the hand at his side subtly forming a fist. Spying it, the other man managed a hard swallow, shaking his head abruptly. Steve hummed under his breath, letting the fist loosen again. "No? Didn't think so."

Pivoting on his heel, he prepared to walk back to his seat.

"Prick," the offending fellow grumbled under his breath, thinking he could get away with it. The speed with which Steve turned around again, the thunder in his face returning almost threefold, made the man's surfacing bravado disappear. The flight attendant, having barely relaxed in her posture, looked utterly baffled at the renewed hostilities, her hands up as if to brace against incoming impact. Before Steve could take a step closer or say another word, he was preempted by the passenger seated beside the guy slapping him contemptuously on the shoulder.

"Robert! You're done," the woman beside him (presumably his wife) crowed, finally taking a stand against her partner's behavior. The young girl in the window seat had adopted her mother's earlier posture, her face hidden by her palms. The man winced, but continued to clench his jaw and stare down sullenly. To Steve, the older woman cast him an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, really."

The blond man flicked his gaze at her dissenting husband, and stiffened his spine. "I am, too, ma'am, for you. Enjoy the rest of the flight."

His heavy footsteps seemed to reverberate in the cabin until he reached his family's row, but soon enough they were encompassed by the clapping of hands and a few well-meaning calls given to him for standing up for his baby. Nodding once, he slid back into his seat, the satisfaction at doing what needed to be done permeating through him.

"How's he doing?" he asked quietly, buckling back into the seat again. Holly, brushing some of her loose hair behind her ear, still looked distressed, but he soon discovered it was for a different reason entirely.

"Better," she said, confirming it by gesturing to the little guy gumming at his pacifier and the tear tracks she was drying off his cheeks, his bottle finished. Shaking her head, she cast a fast look at her husband, sighing through her nose. "You don't have to be picking fights over this."

Steve shot her a look, biting back the urge to point out who was picking what at that moment. Instead, he crossed his arms, his spine stiffening.

"I wasn't the one who started it. But I was damn well gonna finish it," he told her staunchly. Holly inhaled deeply, closing her eyes, and he could practically hear her screaming for the strength to continue on as it rattled in her head. Letting out her breath, she opened her eyes again, patting Grant's back as he whimpered.

"Impossible," she mumbled, focusing again on the infant in her arms. Still, he swore he caught a glimmer of acceptance in her eyes, and he let the matter lie. The remainder of the flight found Grant to be in reasonable peace, with only a few low crows to indicate he needed a change before they'd landed. When the airplane had landed, pulling up to the assigned gate at Minneapolis-St. Paul International, Steve noted with dark amusement how fast the offending man from earlier and his family had stumbled away, eyes averted as they passed their row. Carry-ons in tow and their son back in his carrier, they made their way to the baggage corral, Steve's duffel and Holly's larger rolling case retrieved in almost record time. All winter gear was shrugged on as they made their way up to the pick-up and drop-off area, a text having been received from Holly's parents several minutes ago alerting them that they were there. Spying a salt-and-pepper head canting down at a silvered blonde, both wrapped in heavy coats and gloves, Steve could affirm that was true.

"Holly, Steve!" Lisa Martin's voice rang out down the way when she spotted them. Holly and Steve grinned tiredly as her mother approached, her braid bouncing as she tripped over to them. As ever, Paul's placid presence was a foil to her warm enthusiasm, both of them taking their turns embracing the younger couple. Patting her daughter on the shoulder, Lisa asked, "How was the flight?"

A fast, wary glance passed between husband and wife, and a shoulder lifted.

"...Interesting," Steve responded pensively, and Holly shook her head, brushing over his answer by presenting their boy to his grandparents. Paul and Lisa delighted in the sight of their grandson, Steve's remark fading as their little troupe made their way out to the car in the parking ramp. The cold, swirling flakes of the Minnesota winter enfolded them, banishing all thoughts of the flight as they strapped in and left.

There was little difficulty on the car ride from the airport back to the Martin house, the familiar split-level home on the cul-de-sac a welcome sight as they parked. Given how late it was that they'd gotten a flight out from New York, it was well past nine o'clock by the time they took themselves up to the room they'd be staying. Unlike last time, neither would be sleeping in the downstairs room, the space allotted for Hank's use that year since they had the baby. Hank's old bedroom had been repainted in the last few years, ocean-colored to go with the light bedspread and woods of the bed frame and dresser chosen. Instead of relegating Grant to the travel bassinet, Holly's parents had brought up the crib they used for their children. It had been clean and repainted for when Heather's boys were younger, but now it was Grant's turn to use it. As ever, Jodie was in the room across the hall, the strawberry blonde girl racing out to greet them as soon as they'd pulled into the driveway. Hugs and such had gone around, with her father shaking Steve's hand warmly and hugging his sister tightly before fetching up his nephew and bouncing him in his arms. Within the hour, all had parted ways to either tend to last-minute items of the day, or to collapse into bed. Grant was out like a light, not even waking when he was changed into his pajamas, and Steve and Holly crashed out right after he did, barely changing themselves for sleep.

The next day found the next round of guests on the doorstep, Holly's sister Heather having arrived with her family. She and her husband Jake were staying in a hotel with their boys further in town, as they too lived out of state. Heather's school had ended classes the previous day, and Jake had worked it out with his boss to take a good portion of days off for the trip. They'd come over after checking into the hotel, around lunchtime, happily enduring Lisa's hugs and Paul's quiet affection. Holly and Hank hugged their sister as well, Steve enfolded into the greetings as well—the men exchanged handshakes, but at least there were warm back pats to accompany them.

"Come meet your cousin, boys," Heather called out to her own sons, gesturing for them to step lively. Cole, at four, and Ryan, three, toddled across the carpet, boots and coats shoved off as they did as their mother asked (with some prompting from their father pushing them on as well). Steve, having taken up the little guy from where he'd been rolling onto his stomach on a blanket near the couch (Cousin Jodie watching him dutifully, as she'd promised) sat down on the floor with him, sitting him up in his lap and smoothing his ruffled, sandy hair into place. Once they were close enough, both boys stopped, gray and light brown gazes taking in the sight of the baby in the red, Christmas tree-adorned romper.

"'S a baby," Ryan murmured seriously, bright eyes taking in the infant.

"This is Grant. Remember, your mommy and daddy told you?" his aunt reminded him, to which the boy nodded. Carefully, he reached out, patting Grant on his smaller shoulder and giving him a tentative grin. A gummy one was flashed back at him after a few seconds, and Ryan giggled, the red waves of his hair shifting. Beside him, his big brother leaned over slightly, as though from an impressive height.

"He's little! Like one-a Jodie's dolls," Cole declared eagerly. Jodie, just shy of turning ten by a few months, rolled her eyes from her spot on the couch; she didn't play with dolls anymore, and didn't think it was right to compare the baby to toys. (She had her father's and aunt's old action figures to play with now if she wanted to, which were much cooler.) Catching her out, Holly winked when she shrank a little in her seat, assuring her silently that she wasn't in trouble for it. Heather squatted down next to her boys, taking one hand of theirs each and compelling them to listen to her.

"He is, so that means we've got to be careful around him. Gentle," she admonished them lightly, their eyes wide as they turned back to look at her. "You can be gentle, right, Cole? You and Ryan?"

"Uh-huh. We can," Cole promised for the both of them, with Ryan's cheery yes following. The boys knelt beside their uncle, making faces and noises at the baby perched in his lap. After a few minutes passed in that fashion, Cole's brow screwed up in thought, and he turned to Holly. "He's really small. Next to Uncle Steve."

"Well, I used to be a lot smaller, too," Steve told him, patting his son's tummy lightly. "Smaller than Auntie Holly."

Cole and Ryan's eyes went wide, looking at their big, strong uncle in awe. "No way!"

Steve brought his hand up, solemnly crossing his heart.

"It's true. But I...grew up, and so will Grant," he said, glossing over the fact that it was only due to experimentation and good luck that he'd grown after the age of sixteen. Still, he reckoned his son, with part of his rewired genetics, would have a much better shot than he did as he grew up. Reaching out, he tapped Cole on the shoulder, a half-grin stretching his mouth. "So will you. Someday, you'll be as big as your dad."

Cole nodded decisively, patting his uncle's arm in return. "And Grant will be like you."

The half-grin lessened, and the older man inclined his head. "I think so."

Beside him, he felt his wife shift, pressing her shoulder to his in a show of solidarity.

"He will be," Holly murmured low, the promise in her voice so steady and sure. Her lips brushed against his cheek, and she squeezed his arm, affection wreathing her features when he looked at her. "In all the good ways."

On that note, the boys continued to chatter and bring toys to their cousin as he sat on his father's lap, Jodie joining in and dandling a few stuffed animals for Grant to grab at. And he was all chubby limbs and happy smiles, his parents pleased with the way the children were getting on with him, pleased that the ever-expanding family adored him as much as they did. With a little help from Uncle Jake, Jodie had lifted Grant up to better see the lights on the Christmas tree, holding onto him when she brought back down to pat the wrapped presents sitting underneath its branches. All eventually made their way upstairs for lunch, a hearty stew dished out in massive portions to all those who wanted to partake. Over the meal, the family caught up on the changes in their lives. Jake, working in the sales department of a major sporting goods outlet in Iowa, had had a good quarter, good enough that he had earned a raise and was able to better adjust his schedule, allowing him more time with the boys. Heather's classes were going well, a couple of kids having dug their way under her skin but otherwise she did not have much to complain about (except for the school board seemingly turning over at the drop of a hat, but that was a headache for another time). With the work season slowing down for himself, Paul had been taking the time to consider the wear and tear on himself, noting that retirement was all the more appealing as the days passed. Lisa groused in good nature that he couldn't retire yet; after all, he'd be spending more time around the house if he did, and he'd be bored out of his mind within days, something he'd chuckled at and dipped his chin in agreement. Hank reported the state of the garage, and how his side venture of brewing with his buddy had hit a snag. It was something he was attempting to work out with the help of his girlfriend, in that she was helping him investigate spaces to expand on the venture with them (she would be coming over for Christmas Eve, as well as part of Christmas Day). The kids spoke of school, Jodie more so than Cole or Ryan, each listing the fun things they'd learned. Holly's pastimes were given, and Steve due to the nature of his work, could not divulge much, but the family was glad to hear that things appeared to be calm, for the time being. The warmth and contentment flowed underneath the chatter, pushing and pulling as the meal wound down.

Realizing that she'd forgotten a few ingredients for baking on her last trip to the store, Lisa lamented that she needed to take yet another trip out that day. Holly volunteered to go for her, persuading Steve to come along with her. With Grant in the care of her parents, he complied readily, all the winter gear pulled on and meeting her at her mother's Equinox. She came out a little later than he did, but soon enough, they were on their way. The afternoon sun had slid lower as the time passed, with them first stopping at the nearby Cub for the groceries required, and then Holly insisting on heading over to another store to get a few additional stocking stuffers for her siblings. He was happy enough to go with her, enduring wandering store aisles easily as they traded remarks, their easy camaraderie flowing forth as they ducked in and out, causing a few people to stare curiously at them (at him, really, but it was ignored, either way). When the time came to turn the car back towards home, Holly deftly drove past the necessary turn, her features set placidly as the radio pumped out a Christmas tune by a young lady called Karen Carpenter.

Noting the change in direction, Steve cast a glance over to his wife. "Something tells me we're not going right back to the house."

An unbidden grin sprang to her lips, and she signaled a left turn.

"Your foolproof intuition strikes again, Commander," she retorted, the teasing glint in her gaze impossible to ignore. When his eyebrows rose minutely, she lifted a hand from the wheel when she completed the turn, palm out. "Just wait, it's a surprise."

Eyeing her curiously, Steve did just that,watching as the terrain of the suburb flowed on around them. The limits gave way to another as she crossed over the freeway, taking the twists and turns of the next town with ease. Soon enough, they'd arrived on the other side of the small city, pulling up to an automobile garage. Above the three-bay doors stood a sign, proudly declaring the property as Martin's Auto Repair, another graphic of it stenciled onto the inset window on the locked front door. As Holly got out of their car, his eyebrows inclined higher when called for him to follow. Around the back they went, where a smaller garage space was tucked into the far corner of the property. She murmured about how her brother used it for special projects, and that had his suspicions going through the roof as she jangled a ring of keys from her pocket (borrowed from Hank for those purposes, without a doubt). Soon enough, they were out of the cold, into the mild warmth of the heated space, a few lights flicked on overhead. The restoration project Hank housed there stood proudly in the center, and he froze, barely hearing the door to the outside clicking shut behind him.

"Wow," Steve breathed, stepping forward almost as if he were in a trance. Last December, Hank had told him that he was intent on restoring a Packard 180 he'd gotten through an auction. For the better part of the last year, he'd been tinkering with it, chipping away at the project in between tending to his customers' vehicles and running the small parts section in the front. It appeared that he was nearly finished with the work, if he wasn't done entirely. "Your brother did a bang-up job."

And he had, down to the details of the swan hood ornament and the whitewall tires. The chrome work on the grill, bumpers, and the trunk rack gleamed, the sideboards were clean and sturdy. The windows looked like they'd received a good scrub at some point in the last week or so, all clear and glinting off the light from the overheads. Hank had chosen black for the paint, all buffed and waxed to a fine sheen. It looked downright gorgeous, given how it had looked in its before pictures—rusted on the boards and the doors, and missing pieces of bumpers and the grill—and Steve felt a surge of pride for his brother-in-law surface.

"It certainly looks good," Holly concurred, giving the vehicle a long look of appreciation. Shrugging, she confessed, "He had wanted to do a restoration like this for years. Guess he got some inspiration from you."

Steve sent her a sly, sideways glance. "Is it unlocked, do ya think?"

Smirking up at him, Holly held up the borrowed key ring again. Selecting one, she quickly went over to the driver's side, popping the lock and opening it smoothly. Turning back, she caught the wide smile blooming on her husband's face. Motioning for him to get in, she giggled when he eagerly complied, his larger frame folding and sliding in with very little difficulty. Going around to the passenger's side, she found the door swinging open for her, Steve beckoning her to join him fast. Getting in, she watched his hands caressed the wheel almost reverently. She sank back into her seat as he continued to fiddle around, touching and crowing over the features her brother had restored as closely as possible to the originals. She had thought it would be a good idea to stop over at Hank's garage, let her husband take a gander at a car from his generation, but she had not anticipated the wide set of his eyes and the joy in his countenance. Handing over the key ring, he selected the right one, firing up the engine the rumble and purr of it making his smile grow. Wonderingly, she shook her head when he finally sat back, final approval given with a single nod as he shut it off.

"You're over the moon, Steve," she stated softly. In the low light of the garage, she spotted the spots of pink on his cheeks, his diffident grin giving him away. Flapping a hand towards the rest of the vehicle, she said, "You had to have been in one of these before."

Steve sighed, lifting a shoulder. "Always rode passenger in these things, never got behind the wheel. To be honest, I didn't really drive all that much until the war, and then...German cars are a bit different."

That was true, in all respects. New York City back then, and still nowadays, was a walkable city. Even then, Steve had never had the kind of money to blow on a car; cab fare and the train were enough for him, if he truly needed it (and some asthma attacks definitely dictated that he had needed it at times). By the time the Depression faded and the war was on, it was just something he made due without. Not that he didn't know how to drive—Bucky's old man had access to a delivery truck owned by a fella he knew from the first war, and had taught both him and his son the basics—it just wasn't a necessity. He'd preferred his motorcycle once he got it, anyway.

But the Packard was a beaut, though, and he wouldn't deny it, he mused quietly, running his palms over the wheel again.

"We'll have to come back in the summer and take it out for a test drive," Holly was saying, cutting into his reverie. Her arm laid across the top of the seat, fingers idly brushing along his coat at the shoulder. Nodding to herself, she relayed, "He should have it all completed and licensed by then. If he hasn't found a buyer."

"Maybe we will," Steve concurred, the wan set of his mouth the only bit of hope they could have for that happening. With his change in title, he had a better chance of getting away when he wished, but he couldn't predict what could or couldn't happen that far off. Looking over at his girl, his wife, he exhaled in contentment, a finger tapping against the shifter. "I'm glad we stopped by."

"Yeah, me too," she said, genuinely happy to have made him feel that way, as well. Scooting along the bench until she was beside him, she leaned into him, toying with the buttons on his coat as his arm slid around her waist. "Haven't had you all to myself for awhile. It's nice."

His grip on her tightened, and he pulled her in so that her face was level with his. Eyelids were hooded, and his smile took on a decidedly lusty air.

"More than nice, surely?" he said, the baritone of his voice dropping lower. A shiver shot down her back, and she nodded.

"Definitely, hon."

Closing the minute gap between them, her lips brushed over his, claiming them in a deep kiss fueled by desire and the lack of restraint they had at their disposal. It was nearly bruising, but they met each other stroke for stroke, opening up to one another and melting into the prolonged embraced. By the end of it, hats were off, coat had been opened, and they were breathing heavily, nips and busses traded before Steve pulled back, blue irises almost eclipsed by his pupils.

"Wanna check out the back seat?" he asked, the tone he used a shade too innocent to be just that. Eyebrows waggled slightly, and he mildly asserted, "Can't say we gave it a full examination if we don't."

A snicker tore out of her then, and she rolled her eyes playfully. For a minute, she wondered if she would be indulging in a fantasy of his from his teen years if she agreed, particularly with the model of car they were sitting in, but she brushed that off. It was one that she wouldn't mind being a part of in the least.

"Good excuse," she riposted sardonically. The impish look on his face started to deflate, and she chose that moment to kiss him again, the press of her lips harder and the trace of her tongue along his more insistent. Both were left breathless once more when she pulled away, and she dipped her chin enthusiastically. "Yes."

Steve's grin became a touch more feral as she slid away and out the door, quick to follow her example and meet her in the back.

The sun had set completely by the time they'd returned to the house, their purchases taken in and their free hands laced together as they went inside. Parting in the entryway with a kiss, Steve handed off the plastic bags to Holly to distribute as necessary. On a personal mission now, he soon enough met it by finding Hank. He was on his own in the downstairs family room, no doubt taking a few moments away from the rest of the family before dinner. He had a bottle of hard cider in one hand, the cheery lights of the Christmas tree illuminating the room along with the television. Watching as the host of the show set out upon the Amazon river, preparing to encounter the mysterious creatures in its waters, his gaze flicked over to the blond man as he removed his outerwear and toed off his boots.

"You're back late," Hank grunted, smirking up at his brother-in-law as he crossed over to the couch.

"Yes, yes we are," Steve replied affably, sinking into the couch cushions, satisfaction in his face. Glancing back toward the stairs that led up to the joined landing and the kitchen, he asked, "How was Grant?"

Hank snickered, hazel eyes lighting up. "He spent the whole afternoon getting spoiled rotten by everyone. I think he's in heaven right about now."

That sounded about right; the little guy already loved all the attention he got at nearly five months (only one day shy of five months, Steve noted inwardly). A few moments of silence reigned between the two men before the blond dug around in his pocket, the key ring extracted from it and tossed to the brunet.

"The car is really nice, Hank. Very well done," he told him without preamble, correctly supposing the other man had known exactly where they'd been earlier. Proudly, Hank smiled and thanked him, keys tucked away and sitting up straighter in his seat as the television blared on. Curious, Steve wondered, "You gonna sell it in the summer?"

"Thinking about it. I've got some feelers out with some classic collectors, nothing definite yet," the brunet said, shrugging a shoulder. His gaze slid sideways, and his eyebrows inclined. "You interested?"

Steve glanced down, his toe tapping against the floor as he considered it.

"I dunno. Another car on top of all our other expenses, not sure we could justify it." A shake of the head, and he came to his decision. "Nah, I had my chance in it this afternoon, that should be enough."

He shifted in his seat, a small twinge running up his back, and he cast a furtive look to his brother-in-law. "Might want to pad the benches a little better, just saying."

Hank snorted audibly, sipping deeply from his cider. "Why, you got a sore ass sitting in there?"

A slow, secretive smile spread over Steve's lips, and he canted his head. "Something like that."

About to reply, Hank paused, really taking in the other man's posture and the smug set of his features. Understanding began to dawn, and his jaw dropped.

"Wait...oh, my God, did you guys...?"

Steve held up a preemptive hand, unable to resist the urge to irk Hank. "Don't worry, we left it spotless. We made sure of it."

"Oh, for God's sake!" the brunet growled loudly, shaking his head as if to dispel the mental images that cropped up. Barely suppressing his laughter, Steve covered his mouth with his hand as his brother-in-law shot out of his seat, veritably clomping up the stairs as he moaned in indignation. Holly appeared then, having check on their boy, who was napping after a good bottle given to him by his grandmother. Passing Hank on the landing, she shot him an incredulous look when he glared at her distastefully and clicked his tongue. Watching him go, then turning to her husband, the questions in her eyes died upon spotting his ill-concealed humor, and her expression flattened.

"...You told him?"

Calming himself little by little, Steve's finger came up, pointing at her. "I didn't say anything. I implied."

"All I want for Christmas is some disinfectant for my poor baby!" Hank hollered from the kitchen, the distant voice of Lisa, Jake, and Heather lobbed back at him from further in the house. Holly slapped a hand to her forehead, a growling groan ripping out of her. A chirp of laughter forced its way past Steve's lips, and she shot him a muted glare. Striding up to stand in the V of his legs, she leaned down and poked him in the shoulder.

"You know full well that we didn't...meet certain criteria for the actions you implied, mister. And now we won't hear the end of it."

Not perturbed in the least, Steve merely reached up, hands gripping his wife's waist and guiding her down to sit on his knee. He did not meet much resistance, and heat flushed through him as she slid closer to him, the warmth of her body along his feeling so good.

"Might be worth it. It was fun, either way," he whispered, teasing a reluctant grin out of her as he gently pecked along her jaw.

"Troublemaker," she breathed, her hand cupping his cheek and pulling him in for a proper kiss. He reveled in the curve of her mouth against his, the press of her soft lips, recovered as they were from their earlier exploits. Pulling back, she braced her forehead on his, her fingers smoothing over his hair. "Yes, it was."

 **xXxXxXx**

The house was in a flurry of activity on the morning of Christmas Eve, preparations being made that neither Holly nor Steve were fully aware of until then. Each went about their morning ablutions, but the curious brunette of the couple wanted answers, and so sought them out when her partner was thoroughly occupied.

"So apparently it's not just us for the day. We've got extended family coming in," Holly told him when he came back from his turn in the shower. She'd already dressed while he was out, and was set upon getting the baby ready then. "Mom just got confirmation for it all a couple of days ago, and spaced on telling us."

"Who's coming?" he wondered, fingers working at the buttons of his light blue shirt and attempting to take the news in stride. He'd yet to meet the whole of her extended family, having only been introduced to the few at their wedding that could make it out. A tremor of nerves shot through him briefly at the thought of meeting new people on a holiday, but that was all he would show of his feelings on the matter.

"Two of my dad's sisters and their husbands, and my Grandma Jean and Great-Grandma Lydia," she stated, leaving off of getting Grant's pants on to tick the people off on her fingers. Lifting a shoulder, she went got back to the business of clothing the baby, mumbling, "Basically everyone on my side who couldn't make it to the wedding. With the exception of a few cousins."

Steve dipped his chin, his brow furrowing. Six people, plus Holly's parents, her sister and her family, Hank, Gemma, and Jodie, and their family all packed in...and he'd thought him and his mother attending functions with the Barnes brood was quite enough, way back when.

"Are we all going to fit? I mean, the house is pretty decently sized, but—"

"Don't worry about it," she cut him off, her mouth curving as she noted his concern. "They won't be staying overnight, since they all live close enough."

Belatedly, he recalled that most of Holly's family (both sides) lived within three or four suburbs on the east side of St. Paul. With the exception of her sister's family having come up from Iowa, they actually lived the farthest away. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he mulled the thought over in his mind for a few moments, fingers picking at the outside seam of his khakis.

"Huh," he muttered.

"What?" Holly asked, catching his bowed head and the preoccupied set of his face. With Grant now fully dressed in his Christmas sweater and tiny jeans, she hoisted the baby up, going around to sit beside her husband, curious as to what had him concentrating so hard internally. Facing her, Steve let his gaze wander over their son, brushing down a non-existent wrinkle in the boy's sweater.

"Just...having your family so close all the time," he commented carefully, the corner of his mouth turning up wistfully. "It's something else."

Though he counted it as a blessing to be so close-knit with the team as he was, and he always treasured his memories with the Barnes clan, a part of him had always felt a tiny bit...well, cheated. He loved his mother, and was proud of her for standing firm in her choice to be with his father, but it was hard when in times of hardship and need, they had no family to turn to. It was just the two of them against the world on occasion, and it made parts of him ache even as he smiled on large, extended families gathered together. Even though he knew it did no good to wish for changes in the past, since they were impossible, that was one of those he couldn't help but have.

Having his own now, though, was a balm to his soul, however.

Sensing what he was hinting at, Holly sighed, shifting herself and Grant closer to Steve.

"It could be stifling at times, but I appreciated it, later on," she told him, wanting him to be under no illusions in that regard. Which he knew very well; they were all humans, and all flawed, and in families, sometimes those flaws seemed to be accentuated. But she had the comfort of the good memories along with the not-so-great ones, ones she drew on when she'd moved out East over six years ago.

"Bet you miss it," he said softly, so softly he wondered if she even heard him. If the lifting of her eyebrows was anything to go by, she did, as well as hearing the undertone there, too.

"Sometimes," she professed honestly. Her free hand came up, threading through the hair at the back of his head, prompting him to lift his gaze so she could look him in the eye. Firmly, and with deep feeling and warmth, she overrode her last statement. "But I still have family, no matter where I am."

Understanding her, and grateful that she did not think him foolish for looking for the reassurance, a hesitant grin came to his lips. She rewarded him with a firm kiss, the end of her nose bumping his before she rose from her seat. Grant crowed a bit, little fingers curling into the neck of her sweater and tugging in a bid for attention. Conceding to the little man's demands, he was given a kiss or two of his own, the pacifier handed over and his stuffed giraffe rattle in hand as they all eventually made their way downstairs.

The first to arrive, with the exception of Heather's family, was Hank's girlfriend Gemma, red-gold curls spilling out beneath her hat and eyes bright despite the cold. She was tall, nearly meeting her boyfriend eye to eye and barely tipping her head up to kiss him when she'd arrived. Upon meeting Steve, she did cant her head back, remarking that it had been some time since someone else made her feel shorter. Hank made a mocking offended noise, but the glimmer in his gaze showed how pleased he was with her in spite of that. Her presents were brought downstairs to reside with the others, her coat shucked and her steps bringing her into the kitchen in time for the next wave of family to come in. As promised, Holly's aunts—Charlene and Julia—came with their husbands, the dark eyes common in the Martin clan set in their faces lighting in awe and amusement upon greeting them all. Due to the family arriving on Christmas Eve, the traditional plan of a light meal followed by a buffet on the actual holiday was reversed, the aunt bearing plates of their own to contribute. Though a little on edge in the presence of these well-meaning relations, Steve comported himself well, holding up his son and being polite and courteous as ever.

"Remind me why your grandma didn't come to our wedding again?" he asked his wife in a hushed tone while they moved together along the buffet set-up. Everyone else had arrived on time, more or less, but both her grandmother and great-grandmother had gotten in just a few minutes before the food was set out, hurried hellos passed as they tended to their separate tasks. The rest of the family had gone ahead of them, given that Grant needed a fresh diaper and both refused to eat before the other. The stand-off was passed when they both came down, getting him settled in the high chair brought up from storage and letting Lisa have the honor of feeding him (which she actually took pleasure in, spending time with the boy since it was so limited). Finally taking their turns, Steve had the chance to ask the question that had been on his mind since the introductions had gone around.

Holly bit her lip, the answer not pleasant in the least, and not one that she wanted to go over again. When they'd gotten married, she knew that with their collapsed time-line that it would be impossible for all of her family to make the journey out to New York. That didn't surprise or upset her. However, as far as Grandma Jean was concerned, her excuse was upsetting.

"She...she didn't understand the whole frozen-in-ice thing with you, and thinks that what you have with me is almost like cradle-robbing," she explained, her halting tone and the grimace on her lips telling him far more than just her words did. Glancing over at him, she saw his eyes widen significantly, stilling in piling turkey onto his plate for a moment as he digested that. Her focus latched back onto the food dishes spread before them, though it barely hid her eye-roll. "Despite the fact that, birth date aside, you're really only in your thirties."

Steve swallowed. "So she's protective of you."

"Sort of," she breathed back, ladling up a spoonful of potatoes. Grandma Jean did look out for her, and had done since her birth; after all, she did carry her name. However, there had always been a hard edge to it, like she sought to find a foothold into Holly's life and dictate certain aspects of it. Well, she tried with all of Paul's children, which Holly suspected was because he was the only boy in the bunch and Grandma was always a little more inclined to favor him because of that (which her aunts just _loved_ , she thought sarcastically). Thankfully, her parents had never let the matriarch get too far in, allowing their children the freedom to grow and become who they wanted to be, but she had always been there, a part of the picture no matter what. Letting a slow sigh filter out her nose, she looked up at Steve. "It's likely she's going to size you up. I'm hoping that will be enough."

His stomach tightened a bit, but he masked it with a lopsided grin and quick remark. "And here I thought that would be your great-grandmother's job."

"Oh, she'll probably have something to say, too," she piped up, positivity flowing through her then. Steve did not nearly match her level at that pronouncement, but she did soften it with by squeezing his arm fondly. "But that would be because she has no filter, as opposed to imagined personal grievances."

That said, he was starting to feel a little better about their prospects. Smiling cheekily at his wife, he muttered, "If that's the case, how did you not end up with Lydia as a name?"

She snickered, topping her potatoes and turkey with gravy before handing the boat off to him. "Didn't go with the H theme my parents were insistent upon."

Plates assembled, the couple made their way back into the dining room, squeezing in at the table as best they could. Lively chatter and laughter echoed around them, the kids allowed to dine with the adults and passing playful taunts back and forth when their parents were otherwise occupied. At the far end, Steve spotted Jean and her mother, a shy smile on his lips when Paul flapped his hand toward them and passed hellos along. Jean merely nodded, indulging in the food and patting down the tight bun her gray hair had been pulled into, but the great-grandmother gave him a warm smile, a knowing gaze glinting behind her thick glasses.

Lydia Green, all things considered, looked decent despite having turned ninety-five the month previous. She ate very little, due to not being terribly hungry, but she was happy enough to contribute to the conversation her wide family perpetuated. Knowing that they were, technically, of an age, Steve kept an eye on her throughout the meal, her and her daughter. Each woman was possessed of an air of calm, though Jean's was a sight more charged than hers (no doubt a family trait passed on to Paul, from what he could see). Aunt Charlene asked after her last surgery, and she patted her hip, stating that she felt like the Bionic Woman those days, ready to take on a marathon if she wished. He grinned at that, his free hand coming to rest on his wife's knee as he settled in more comfortably at the packed table. Once everyone had had their fill of dinner, Lisa and Julia departed to set up the dessert round, giving everyone the chance to separate. A good portion of the family made their way to the family room, but Lydia and Jean found their way to the living room at the front of the house. Mrs. Green walked with the aid of a cane, the limp in her leg all the more pronounced, but she still did it on her own (a polio survivor, who had managed to beat the odds and come away with that minor damage as a child). But she still walked with pride in her step, and settled into the loveseat there with minimal help from her daughter. Seeing their opportunity, Steve glanced from them to Holly, eyebrows inclining, and she nodded in mute agreement before they followed.

Holly cleared her throat, tugging on his hand to step forward, and she began, "Grandma Lyddie, I don't know if they told you, but Steve is—"

That sharp, glittering gaze met Holly's, the resemblance remarkable as she tipped her head to the right and smirked.

"Captain America, I know. He's from my generation, remember," she replied, her thin voice growing stronger as she gave her great-granddaughter the gentle reminder. Her dark gaze, so similar to the young woman's beside her, raked over him then, and he held himself still, almost at attention. Her expression remained passive, her mouth curving into something more genuine as she went on, "I recall watching your pictures and your news reels a few times. Always loved those parts of the reels. You're much more handsome in person, I have to say."

Heat rushed into his face at that, and he ducked his head slightly. "T-thank you, ma'am."

Holly's nose wrinkled, but she still smiled. "I didn't know you were a fan of Steve, Lyddie."

The older woman lifted a shoulder, the creases around her eyes growing starker as she grinned.

"Truth be told, I preferred seeing the sergeant he worked with," she professed, her gaze focusing on the middle distance. The gleam in her irises was unmistakeable, and Steve had bite his lip to contain the bubble of laughter flowing up. She let out a wistful sigh, tucking back a strand of her white locks and replying airily, "Such dark hair...but I'm not opposed to either."

She returned her attention to the blond fellow before her, giving him a wink. Holly and Steve shared an amused look, muted chuckles in their throats.

"I'll be sure to pass the message along to Bucky," he said, tucking a hand into his pocket. "He'll be thrilled to know about this."

Holly concurred with a giggle, while Lydia's thin brows rose.

"He's alive, too? My goodness. You both must have discovered the fountain of youth," she commented, tapping the end of her cane on the carpet. Steve's eyes dropped to his feet then, and he sighed.

"It came at a high price, ma'am," he remarked, sadness twisting his smile then. The heat of Holly's palm bled through his shirt as she rubbed his back, silent reassurance given.

"I'm sure it did," Lydia concurred, a muted wealth of sorrow and pain dulled by time in the words. Blinking a few times, the older woman coughed and pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket, swiping at her mouth and eyes briefly. Finishing with that, she gripped her cane, tapping the outside of Steve's leg with it gently. "Well, I know you married little Holly here, so I don't need to tell you anything her father and brother haven't already told you." Her gimlet gaze met his staunchly, the squint examining him in an entirely different fashion. The feeling of going to attention ran through him again, and he waited for her to speak once more. "Just keep being a good man, and we won't have any problems." That promise made, she leaned back into the cushions of the couch, setting her cane to hook around the arm and letting her hands fall into her lap. "Now, let me meet my great-great-grandson. Officially, anyway."

That was a wish they could easily comply with, Steve fetching up the baby from Paul and Lisa while Holly surreptitiously pulled out her phone, readying it to take pictures. Bringing the little boy in closer, she had her elbow bolstered by a pillow as she took the baby into her arms, her face creased deeper with delight.

"Third boy of the bunch on this side," she mused aloud, shifting in her seat as Grant went into the crook of her elbow. His wide gaze took her in, a tiny fist reaching and curling around the button on her pocket, and he hummed as she stared back at him. The boy chirped, and Lydia grinned down at him, mimicking the sound back to him. "Look at those big, blue eyes. He'll be a heart-breaker one day."

From her perch in the armchair, where she'd been sitting in cold silence until that moment, Jean Martin sniffed loudly.

"I suppose you're right, Mother," she conceded, the corners of her mouth barely curving. She'd been watching the proper introduction with a hard gleam in her eyes, the edge of it cutting all those who approached, up to and including her own children (Holly's aunts had beat a hasty retreat to the family room downstairs when they noticed it, their husbands right behind them).

"Wipe that sourpuss off your face," Lydia rebuked her out the side of her mouth, not even bothering to look up from the baby in her arms. Holly and Steve looked at one another again, tenseness passing as Jean let a low sigh out through her nose and shook her head. Lydia spent a few more minutes cradling and cooing to the babe in her arms before she insisted on attending to her other great-great-grandchildren. With Jodie and the boys in the kitchen, she asked for an escort and Steve obliged willingly. ("Gonna make all the girls at the home jealous when I tell them that Captain America had me on his arm," she'd chortled, the dancing light in her eyes difficult to ignore as he walked with her. For good measure, he also took a picture with her with Paul's assistance.) Holly stayed behind with Grant for a few minutes, giving her grandmother the opportunity to see him up close as well. However, she was in the kitchen as well by the time he'd gotten Lydia situated at the table, passing their boy off to Hank and muttering how she had to grab something from upstairs, something she'd been saving for Jean until that day. The thinking line in her brow had not settled in the slightest, and that alone compelled Steve back into the living room. Jean had remained in the chair she'd occupied, her face turned towards the window looking out onto the cul-de-sac the house was situated on. The tar of the road peeped out beneath the ice and thin layer of snow left on it, the decorations in the yards of the neighbors' houses scrutinized. Her face was forlorn, as though she were truly sorrowful in her loneliness. When she caught Steve coming fully into the room, though, she fixed her expression back to its original mild distaste.

Steve's eyebrow barely spiked. He'd faced worse threats in his life than a bitter, sullen older woman. He wouldn't be cowed by her, not even though she was his wife's grandmother.

"Mrs. Martin," he addressed her politely. Striding forward, he pointed to the chair directly across the coffee table from her, the one facing the foyer archway. "Mind if I sit here?"

Jean shrugged at him, motioning silently for him to do as he pleased. Taking his seat, he kept his posture rigid, meeting her gaze squarely for several long seconds. Tipping his head slightly to the left, he let out a low breath.

"I can tell you have something on your mind, so if you'd like to say anything, now would be the time to do so," he indicated, watching as his words triggered the switch in her mind to flip. He just wanted to get what she was placing between them out in the air, to find a solution around it. She narrowed her gaze in on him, and set her hands primly on the arms of her chair, like a queen sneering down on a peasant that had dared to cross her path.

"For the sake of my granddaughter, I've been tolerating this," she told him directly, her mellow tone lined with disdain. "But don't expect me to fall all over you, like the rest of this family has."

The last sentence was said with derision, a verbal slap to the face to him and to anyone who had the gall to treat him well there. Even with Holly's warning about her disapproval, the sting in her words dug into his skin. Still, he kept his demeanor placid, intent on keeping the holiday gathering happy. It was impossible to expect everyone to like him, he knew that firsthand, but he could work with what was willingly given. Despite it being, evidently, very little to go on.

"I don't expect you to, ma'am," he responded amenably. A flicker of green caught his eye, but he could not address it, his attention kept on the older woman. Folding his hands in his lap, he continued, "But I think it does say something that you would rather hold onto your own prejudices than actually try to be happy for Holly."

Two gray eyebrows rose at his point, and the frown on Jean's mouth deepened exponentially.

"One day, she'll come to her senses, realize what she's wasted on this mistake she's made," she stated plainly, a shrewd glance cast first to the wedding band on his finger and then toward the kitchen, where she knew the baby was being passed from person to person. At the blatant disrespect to his wife, to his son and to himself, his jaw stiffened, his fingers lacing hard together to stop himself from reacting too obviously to her sharpness.

However, that wasn't to say there wasn't a reaction to them.

"You'll be waiting a long time for that day to come, Grandma."

Jean's eyes widened almost comically at the new voice behind her, the one filled with deep hurt. Steve winced as he looked over her head to his wife, her dark eyes lined with disappointment and her mouth tightening in distaste as she picked at the hem of her green sweater. Behind her was Paul, his distress for her breaking through his typically calm veneer. His free hand was splayed along his daughter's back, silent support for her as she stared down at her grandmother, practically shaking as her emotions started to bubble over. Coming over to the coffee table between the old woman and Steve, she slapped down the copy of her book that had she'd brought with, the pen in hand tucked into her pocket. She'd clearly been hoping to surprise her with it, but had instead stumbled upon her talking down to her husband and questioning her life choices.

"Merry Christmas, I guess," she mumbled, staring at Jean for several more seconds. Despite the flush of red in the older woman's face, she continued to remain silent, her mouth shut tightly and her arms crossing over her chest. Blinking a few times (and trying to hide the watering in them as best she could), Holly cleared her throat, one hand curling around the dog tags hanging around her neck. Steve raised his hand, ready to take her free one, but she gave a halfhearted wave instead. "I'll say good-bye now; I'm done for today."

Immediately she pivoted, striding out of the living room and toward the stairs. Jean rose to her feet, following her for a few steps, fast whispers being told to her about how she didn't have to leave the party and that what she'd heard wasn't all her fault (a glare was shot fast over her shoulder at Steve, and he majorly bristled at that). However, Holly refused to listen, snorting loudly and cutting her off with a curt gesture.

"Scratch that: I'm done until you come to your senses," she amended her previous statement, absolute cold in her tone as she glared at her grandmother and threw her words back in her face. Not giving her the chance to say anything else, the younger woman swiftly made her way up the stairs, the slam of the bedroom door echoing down soon after that. The flow of chatter paused in stunned silence, only the radio playing Bing Crosby breaking it.

"Holly Jean!" her grandmother cried up the stairs, intent on drawing her out. When all she got in return was stubborn quiet, she whirled around and came back into the living room, the flush in her face deepening. Jean turned to Paul, who had taken up position beside Steve. Completely ignoring the blond man, she implored her son, "She, she—"

Intent on making her case, brittle as it was, to him, Paul crossed his arms over his chest, remaining firm beside his son-in-law and fixing his mother with a disappointed look.

"Mom, Grandma sent me in because she wants to go home," he murmured quietly, refusing to give credence to her pleas or excuses. She'd hurt his little girl, and he wasn't about to take more anger and blame from her, not even though she was his mother. Dipping his chin back toward the dining area in the kitchen, where Lyddie was, he inquired, "You drove together, correct?"

Her mouth snapped shut, his meaning plain to her in that moment. She would not be able to excuse her poorly-made statement, could not make temporary amends to get her way in that regard. Slowly, she nodded, shooting a fast look at Steve before she bustled over to the entryway closet, fetching up coats and busying herself with that task. Paul's footsteps faded as he went into the kitchen to get his grandmother. For his part, the blond man rose from the armchair, crossed close enough to the archway leading onto the foyer so that the older woman would be made aware of his presence. Tugging her coat on a touch harder than necessary, she glared at him, the blame clear in her eyes. However, he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of indulging in that blame.

"It was good to meet you, ma'am. Drive safe," Steve intoned softly, drawing Jean's hard, incredulous glance over him. He made sure his face was neutral, though he did allow the corner of his mouth to curve only when Lydia said farewell and wished them all the luck in the world with their baby. The older woman's encouragement was soon supplanted by irritation when she took in the sight of her daughter, but at least she had enough tact to wait until they were dressed for the cold and out the door before any more could be said. He remained in place until Paul came back into the family room, a quiet apology on his lips before he clapped his son-in-law on the shoulder. Following him into the kitchen, he was met with the sympathetic glances of the aunts and uncles, of Hank and Lisa as they tended to Grant. Infant that he was, the little guy had no idea what had transpired, and merely grunted and kicked his legs as his uncle held him. Quietly ascertaining that the baby was alright, he made his excuses to go check on Holly, tenderly brushing Grant's hair into place and sharing an understanding nod with Hank before he left. Careful to keep his tread light up the stairs, he purposefully waited on the landing until the conversation below picked up once more, the distracted giving a veil of privacy to the situation.

"Holly?" he called out, knocking softly at the bedroom door when he reached it. A stuttering breath was the only reply he received, and so he slowly turned the knob without waiting for further permission. Entering the room, he spotted his wife seated on the edge of the bed, facing away from him. She didn't turn around to look at him, but it was impossible to miss the shake of her shoulders and the bow of her head. Stepping closer, he heard her sniff, the end of her sleeve brought up to swipe at her face. Distress and sorrow warred in his heart as he sank down on the mattress beside her, his palm laid gently on her back. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause anything with your grandmother. I just—"

Her head came up then, and he was nearly taken aback by the frustration and anger there. Swiping hard at the tear tracks against her reddened cheeks, she shook her head vehemently.

"You did nothing wrong, Steve," she told him, refusing to hear an apology that was not necessary from him. Taking his free hand in hers, she slotted their fingers together, squeezing hard as her face hardened. "And you are _not_ a mistake. Not you, and not our son."

His heart swelled at her declaration, the fierce loyalty and adoration in her voice washing over him. Gathering her into his arms, he held her for a long minute, let her bury her face into his shirt. A few stray tears blotted the cotton, but he could feel her body stiffen against it, her own stubborn refusal to give anymore than that communicated to him perfectly. Leaning back, she swiped away the fresh tracks, inhaling deeply and shaking her head.

"I just...I don't get it. There have been family members who have done really stupid things in the past, and she doesn't bat an eyelash," she lamented, a dry scoff coming out of her mouth. Oh boy, did some of her relatives pull some ridiculous stunts back in the day, but those weren't the issue at hand, apparently. "But this? Our marriage, our baby— _that_ is what she has a problem with? I mean, what the hell?"

Steve bit his lip for a moment as he tucked some of her hair behind her ear. "Well, technically, I am older than you. A lot older."

Dark brown eyes, bloodshot though they were, did not waver from his for several long seconds.

"Tell me: do you really feel like you're ninety-eight?" she asked him quietly, her head tipping to the left. "Honestly, do you think of yourself actually being that old? Do you feel that way?"

"Some days I feel older than the hills," he joked, his attempt at levity falling flat. Scratching the back of his neck, he murmured, "But overall, no, I don't. To be honest, I've been internally counting up from where I left off before I went down in 1945. I was almost twenty-seven when that happened, so..."

Holly's fingers tangled with the dog tags again, twitching them fiercely as she closed her eyes.

"What the hell does it even matter, anyway?" she whispered. Steve's brow furrowed even more, and he scrubbed at his forehead.

"Sweetheart, if you're asking me for an answer, I'm sorry, but I don't have one," he told her, a hand coming up and cupping the air apologetically. There really wasn't anything he could say; though it didn't happen all that much in their immediate social circles, their marriage still was a subject of debate in the world. That it hit much closer to home than usual made it a touch more difficult to swallow, but there wasn't anything that could be done about it. And, to him at least, it didn't matter what other people thought or said.

All he had was this simple truth: they loved each other, and their son, and in the end, that was all that mattered.

Exhaling softly, his arm crooked around her firmly, bringing her against him as the pads of his fingers brushed gently against her sweater. He pressed his lips into her hair as she drew in a few calming breaths, determination breaking through the distress.

"Then...that's it, then." A decisive jerk of the chin, and she sniffed hard one last time. Flicking a glance sideways at him, she stated blandly, "For the record, my other grandmother would have adored you."

"Too bad I couldn't have met her, then," he mumbled, determining inwardly that would be all that he would say on the matter. If Holly was going to put it to one side, where it belonged, he could as well. Letting out a sharp breath, he dipped his chin as another thought surfaced. "Lydia was interesting, at least."

A wry chuckle, weak as it was, floated out of Holly then, and he counted it as a minor victory.

"That she is," she agreed. Her gaze raked over him, and a slow smile bloomed on her lips. "You get a pinch?"

Pink tinged Steve's face at the memory, of the tweaking fingers and bright smile of the older woman when he brought her into the kitchen, and he cleared his throat.

"A couple."

Nodding, Holly squinted and smirked at him. "Couldn't pick a cheek, could she?"

The blush in his face darkened, and he could only roll his eyes when she laughed out loud.

"Yuck it up, sweetheart," he groused, not truly annoyed with her. He silenced her giggles with a long, tender kiss, soothing away the last of her hurt with his touch. When he pulled away, he silently tipped his head back towards the door, and she inclined her head, taking his hand and walking with him and rejoining the family downstairs.

Once they were in the family room, she'd reclaimed their son, pecks dropped to Grant's cheeks and nuzzling his hair, taking as much comfort in his presence as he did in her arms. The party broke up roughly an hour after that, with Charlene and Julia expressing their thanks as they bundled up their husbands and disembarked for home. With the house settling down somewhat, Paul and Lisa had made the executive decision to do the traditional two-present opening then, as opposed to waiting until after the service they would attend that night. The television was switched over to the Yule log channel, Nat King Cole's crooning voice filling the space. The little boys and Jodie were all too pleased with that turn of events, each picking their gifts with gusto. Understanding the kindness of the gesture, Holly and Steve went along with the change of plans, opening their own gifts and their son's with alacrity. Ugly sweaters were revealed: Holly's in orange and white, the springs of mistletoe attached to the stitched form of BB-8 on the front, and Steve's in kelly green, a bright white A in the center of the chest and surrounded by a gaudy wreath. The tiny one for Grant, blue and a small reindeer with a bright, red puffball attached as the nose, made them laugh, thanks passed along (Lisa took a bow, having outdone herself yet again in that department). Gemma and Jodie showed off their own, with Hank grinning proudly at his girls, Cole and Ryan delighting in the toy cars they had and driving them up and down their parents' legs.

The last of the anger that had driven Holly before had dissipated, and she snickered as her little boy gummed at his brand-new ring toy, resting happily against her and kicking his legs.

"Merry Christmas, baby boy," Holly whispered to Grant, pressing a kiss into his hair as she nestled closer into Steve's side. Hearing her whisper, he grinned down at her and their son, the little family brought closer together as the Yule log crackled onscreen and the lights of the Christmas tree glowed.

* * *

 **A/N:** Ah, holidays...always emotionally-loaded affairs. Logic would denote that somebody in Holly's family wouldn't be totally okay with her marrying someone who, by birth date alone, is decades older than her—despite the fact that in physical looks, and in emotional and psychological development, is no older than his early thirties in the MCU. People mock Steve for being an "old man", but he really isn't. I don't know, to me Steve would be old if he had actually lived and experienced the decades he passed, but since he didn't, I personally don't consider him to be. Old-fashioned, yes, but not old. Again, this is only my interpretation and could lead to a much longer discussion on the matter. Anyway, moving on...

Please note that all mentions of restoration and auto repair are not done by an expert on the subject. I had to do some research, so it may not be 100% accurate, but I tried!

I know this may indicate that the festivities are over for now. However, I did say multiple chapters for Christmas, so there is one more coming. The next will pick up literally hours after this one has ended, and will have a decidedly more...WinterWidow flavor. :)

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, _River Monsters_ , Packards, _Star Wars_ , etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!

EDIT: I did post a new chapter for _Four Seasons_ , so check it out if you feel so inclined!


	14. Chapter 14

"Auntie Nat," the muffled whisper came through the door, high-pitched and desperate as tiny scratches followed at the door. The scratches increased as the seconds ticked by, and the little voice raised in volume slightly, the fear in it not subsiding in the least. "Auntie Nat!"

At once, Bucky was up, hard breaths pouring out of his nose as the sheets knotted at his hips. Eyes wavered frantically in the dark, trying to pinpoint exactly what the issue was and how best to handle it. Slowly, slowly, he came down from his spiked panic, slapping a palm to his forehead when he realized where he was again. Post-mission adrenaline affected him so terribly those days, and that night was no exception. Even when he made a greater effort to shut it off, as they were not at the base.

Having returned from the scouting mission they'd be taken up a few days prior, Bucky had followed Nat directly from the jet to her rooms, barely pausing to change into civilian wear before catching another quinjet out. It was scheduled to land on the West Coast to refuel and meet the helicarrier as it hovered over the area, but due to some heavy bribing (Maria implied they would owe her a personal favor in the future, which all but promised to be something of great importance) they were able to stop first at the airport in Omaha. Bags in hand, the pair had managed to snag a rental vehicle on Christmas Eve—a shock in and of itself, Nat mused as they climbed into a green Tahoe that had seen better days—and traversed the roads, the city melting away as they shunted and spiraled down back country roads. As per the plans made nearly a month previous, Barnes and Romanoff were to spend several days at the Barton farm, the family greeting them with a mixture of pleasure (for Natasha) and polite welcome (for him, but he wasn't really complaining, either way). Introductions went around for the benefit of the children, with Cooper, Lila, and even little Nathaniel eyeing him up intently—his arm, like always, got a fair bit of notice when he'd removed his coat and sweatshirt, but they must have been forewarned by their parents not to say anything. Mrs. Barton, or Laura as she insisted, had taken them both into the kitchen for dinner, scrounging up something simple for them all since the family had only returned an hour before they'd arrived from a family gathering themselves. Clint Barton himself had little to say, though Bucky did notice the amount of raised brows and fast looks passed between him and Nat even as they spoke avidly. About to question it himself, the redhead had sent a private look back at him, and he let the matter go, tucking into his food and contributing very little to the conversation. Given that they'd come directly from a mission, enduring two flights in one day plus a harrowing drive down Midwestern snow-coated backroads, it wasn't long at all before yawns broke more often in between words than pauses did.

Which brought him to the present moment, his brain scrabbling for calm despite knowing he already had it.

Beside him, Natasha merely groaned, her hand extending in the dark to snap on the bedside lamp. The upstairs guest room was lit with the low pool of light, glancing off the quilt and metal headboard before spinning off towards the craft table by the window. Pushing the sheets off, she languidly rose from the bed, raking her fingers through her hair as she stumbled over to the chair against the wall. Fetching up a robe that had been tossed over the back, she tied it shut over her flannel night shirt just in time for the door to swing open. Evidently, the distressed person on the other side couldn't wait any longer.

It was Lila, brown eyes luminous and blood-shot all at once. Her hair was in tangles, and her breathing was heavy, as though she'd just endured a twelve-mile run. She shot a fast look to the man her aunt had brought with her before darting forward, practically throwing herself into Natasha's arms. Concern bled heavily through the last vestiges of sleep on the older woman's face, her arms wrapping automatically around her and patting her back.

"What's wrong, sweetie?" she asked, keeping her tone low as she began to kneel closer to her level. Before she did, she managed a flick of her eyes to Bucky and over to the door. Taking the cue, he got up, the last of his shaky breaths pouring out his nose as he closed the panels, sealing off the little girl's upset from the rest of the sleeping household. (Cooper's bedroom, as it turned out, was just down the hall from theirs, and it wouldn't do to wake the newly-minted teenager, let alone the baby one floor below.) Perching on the edge of the bed, he too waited for the child's answer, wondering what on Earth could be the matter at that hour.

"I had a nightmare," Lila explained sheepishly after a few moments, almost folding on herself as the back of one hand scrubbed at her cheek. Fingers picked at the sides of her nightdress (the green fairy printed on it almost mocking them all with her sly, happy smile) as she swallowed. Her head drooped, hair obscuring her face as she confessed, "And, and I know Mommy and Daddy want to sleep, and I feel bad because it's a dumb little kid thing, like Cooper always says, but—"

At her words, at the insinuation that her brother's pronouncement was the be-all and end-all of proper behavior, her aunt patted her back again. The light click of her tongue followed, and she sighed.

"Lila, come here," Natasha said, taking the young girl by the hand and drawing her over to the cushioned chair in the corner. Sitting her down in it, the older woman knelt before her, taking a hand between both of hers and rubbing soothingly. "Having nightmares isn't a dumb thing at all. Everybody has them. Me, Bucky, your dad...everyone."

Bucky barely restrained a snort at that; she was understating, to put it mildly, but he knew better than to allude to that fact. Especially with a young girl looking for comfort in the dark of the night. For her part, Lila did not appear to have spotted what he'd held back (though Nat's shoulders had tensed for a moment). Instead, she appeared to be glaring at her knees, processing what was being said and what was roaring through her own mind.

"Yeah, but I bet you don't start crying after yours," she huffed petulantly, more annoyed with herself than with anything Natasha had said. Another swipe at her face, and Bucky stilled in his seat, realizing that she was crying, still, silent tears dripping out despite her wishes to the contrary. It was bad enough when little Grant had his crying jags during his visits to the Rogers' house; it seemed worse when it was coming from a child who could understand the horrors in her own mind.

Natasha reached up then, her thumb swiping tenderly at the tracks on Lila's cheeks.

"Sometimes I do," she murmured, a wealth of pain and sorrow buried deep within the words as she confessed the truth. Certainly, she could have lied to the little girl, but duplicity was something she left behind whenever she was at the farm. There, she could just be, and that meant she could be honest with those around her and not only herself (with a select few knowing what was going on beneath the veneer). The man on the bed across the room stared down at the hands settled on his lap, the cybernetic fingers of one twitching as she spoke. "Sometimes my dreams hurt me that much."

Lila blinked through the last of the water in her eyes, taking stock of the adult in front of her. The look of surprise in her face, of shock that strong, steady Auntie Nat could have nightmares bad enough to shake her, to make her weep in the night.

"What do you do then?" she wondered, sounding a little like hope was dwindling inside her. Because if Auntie Nat was scared of what happened in dreams, what could she do? The redheaded beauty tilted her head to the side, shrugging a shoulder.

"Well, when I wake up, I try to think of other things. Good things, things that make me happy. And if that doesn't work, I talk to someone about them." She looked over her shoulder then, meeting Bucky's cornflower blue gaze and letting the seriousness in her face soften. After a couple seconds, she turned back to the young girl, giving her knee a pat. "It doesn't make me forget, but it does make me feel better."

Glancing over her shoulder to the man on the bed, his face blank and his metal arm fidgeting, Lila blinked in disbelief. "Really?"

Stiffening in his spot, Bucky carefully nodded, the sincerity in his form outweighing the heavy weight on his shoulders.

"Yeah, she does. And she listens to me, too," he pointed out, giving credence to Natasha's words. After staring at him for another minute or two, Lila looked back down at her hands, plucking at the hem of her nightdress and frowning.

"I don't want to think about it. Or talk about it."

Inclining her head, Natasha rose up a little higher, scooping her into a hug. After a squeeze or two, she let the eight-year-old go, inhaling deeply.

"Tell you what: you go grab a book, and I'll read to you, okay?" she offered, the solution the next best thing she could come up with. If Lila didn't want to talk about it, she surely wouldn't force her to. "That also helps."

Slowly, Lila sighed deeply, agreeing to the proposition and crawling out of the chair. Even if she was eight and could read by herself, she was more than alright with the idea. With one more hug exchanged, Natasha walked her to the door, urging her to be quick and quiet with her mission. The little girl's face smoothed out a little, a tiny grin on her lips as she did as she was told, her footfall barely heard as she went out the door. Silently, Natasha shut it behind her, smirking to herself. All the while, Bucky's eyes hadn't moved away from her, had barely diverted since she first took Lila in hand. Sensing the intensity of his gaze, the fiery-haired beauty looked over him, arching an eyebrow.

"What you lookin' at, Barnes?" she snapped playfully at him, dropping onto the bedclothes beside him. He gave a halfhearted snicker, not sure how to phrase his thoughts once he'd been caught out. Clearing his throat, he tipped his head towards the door where Lila had gone.

"Just...you, with her. You're good with her," he muttered bluntly, a finger reaching out and tracing a pattern on the quilt. "Er, um, with most kids I've seen around you, actually."

Natasha's eyes fastened onto her feet then, the playfulness in her grin dissipating in an instant.

"Thank you," she breathed, almost seeming to fold in on herself. His brow furrowed at her deflation; had he said something wrong? Only one way to find out, he grumbled to himself. Hesitantly, he laid a palm on her shoulder, drawing her attention back up to him. The storm in her irises had grown, and he sucked in a breath upon seeing it.

"What?" he murmured, nearly whispering it. Her hand came up then, patting his, and she chewed the inside of her cheek for several long seconds, phrasing it in her mind before saying it aloud.

"Just...y'know the place I grew up in? The one I've..." she trailed off, the barest tick at the corner of her eye catching his attention.

"Yes." Oh, he knew all too well the place she spoke of: the Red Room. She'd given hints about the place in her letters back when they communicated that way, and expounded a bit further once they'd entered into a relationship. And there was more than that; through mission work and reconnaissance, into the old HYDRA and SHIELD information dump, ties had been discovered between the Russian facility and the unearthed Winter Soldier program. Though his memories—save for his kills, which were carved onto the stone of his soul—of the actual program were spotty, he did recall going to a place several times, an old block of housing in Moscow dedicated to intensive training. Through her descriptions, of black and white floors, frozen rooms, and the desperate sense of survival permeating the air as packs of girls endured rigorous and sometimes lethal training, the flashes in his mind were clearer. It was something he and his girl were looking into, a private project to uncover exactly how far the conspiracy went between the separate entities, and to patch up the missing parts as best as possible.

But yes, he absolutely knew what she was talking about. And he barely was able to stop himself from grinding his teeth in disgust—not with Natalia, no, but with what was done to her, mentally and emotionally.

For her part, Natasha took a moment to focus her gaze on the wall, concentrating on the far picture frame there to ground herself. The fact that she was, once again, outlining exactly what was done to her to make her the way she was, to explain her behavior and the fears that drove her to act the way she chose (and in the same room, no less) was not lost on her. In her mind's eye, the darkness gave way to light, standing across the room from another lost soul, telling him why she was just as broken as he was. A muted snort made its way through her, but she swallowed it down with a sigh, facing Bucky again when she'd gotten her bearings.

"They didn't just train little girls to become killers. To ensure that the girls would maintain focus on the objectives of the organization, they...had a graduation ceremony." The words, as ever, left a bad taste in her mouth, a shudder that was bone-deep running through her soul. Inwardly, she chided herself for still carrying the fear, though she'd long ago accepted that it would be part of her for life. Squaring her shoulders, her eyes bored into Bucky's, intent on seeing his reaction to a speech she'd given a variation of over a year and a half ago. "They made sure that they...we...were unable to choose something that could be more important in our lives than the next kill, the next mission."

The lines in his face hardened at the implications, the understanding flooding through him and twisting his stomach. Leaning forward, though, he gathered her up in his arms. His hand, his metal one, combed back the fiery waves of her hair out of her face, the cool touch flitting over her skin and making her close her eyes. A few moments of silence reigned between them, and he braced his head against hers.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" he nearly whispered, his flesh fingers toying with hers. Her head drooped a little, a bittersweet grin on her lips.

"There's a lot of reasons why, James."

There were, to her mind, at least a thousand reasons why she delayed telling him that important piece of information. At first, it was because they barely knew one another; he was literally just the deprogrammed assassin who had happened to shoot her twice, at the beginning. And when things between them altered and changed, she knew it became less about familiarity, and more about trust. Trust, and courage to face the horrors she'd endured yet again, with someone she...

Well.

"Natalia," he said against her temple. Pulling back, his expression became stony, and he met her gaze. "How old?"

It was a tough question to ask, and he knew she would be within her rights to refuse answering it. But he couldn't stop himself from wondering. At what age did they do it to her? When did they decide to take away one of her few free choices in life?

"When I was a year or two younger than Parker," she professed, and he closed his eyes, his mouth turning down in a grimace. The manipulation and hurt done to her when she was barely in her teen years...it made him sick to think about it. Sick, and angry but there was nothing that could be done about it at that moment. It was in the past; the present was a far more pressing concern. She'd kept talking, tugging at the tied belt around her waist as she lifted a shoulder. "I showed promise, so they graduated me earlier than usual."

The truth expressed, they sat together in the silence for awhile, the click of the heater turning on and the creaks of the farmhouse echoing in the night. Taking in a deep breath, she combed through her tresses, steadying her hands and schooling her expression as best she could before she looked at him again.

"So I take what I can get these days," she explained. The process of her mind, her coping with her past, was revealed to him in that instant, and she shrugged again. Tipping her head at the door, she gave a falsely smug smile, the brightness of it not reaching her eyes. "I do make a fantastic aunt."

"You do," he agreed, the thoughts in his brain roiling around now. She really did make a wonderful aunt, attentive and caring in her own way when it came to the children who called her so. The Barton kids adored, had basically mobbed her from the moment she came through the door, down to the one-year-old. Little Grant Rogers was charmed by her as well whenever they visited the house, too, and there were several kids who had approached them at official base functions who had no fear of her. It was fascinating, to see that side of her when she reached out to the younger ones, no duplicity or cold veneer employed to throw off the enemy. Despite the horrors she'd endured in adolescence, the evils she faced in adulthood, her core had not been touched, though she certainly believed otherwise. Natasha Romanoff was a multifaceted woman, and a fascinating one at that. Bucky merely felt lucky enough that she allowed him to see as much as he had.

It was her actions, her choices, that defined her, and she was determined to show that absolutely. He knew why now...because her choice had been taken out of her hands before. He'd known why for a long time, but this revelation fully solidified it.

And then his mind took a turn of its own, as he continued to hold her.

It was not a good idea for him to have a family, either, he mused silently. He could remember a time when that was how he thought life would turn out, could remember speculating about becoming an old, fat guy with kids running around. He'd been in a mix of five children, having to help raise his younger siblings as much as his parents did, and while some might resent that, he could remember rather liking it, more often than not. His sense of responsibility had come directly from pulling Bram out of the fire with some mean kids at school, from holding his sister and telling her how brave she was while Mrs. Rogers took a moment to help treat some scrapes on her knees when she roller-skated and tumbled on the sidewalk. (It also made him a bit reckless in regards to his own personal safety, particularly when he had to jump in and save Steve's bacon for the umpteenth time. Kid had absolutely no sense of it himself, so it was best to abandon it altogether when a scrap became inevitable.)

But that was before the fall. Before the war, before he lost everything...lost himself for too many decades. Although he was healing, was moving forward from that portion of his life, he had found that there were pieces missing. Pieces that, even if they were found, wouldn't fit right inside him anymore.

There were too many variables, in his opinion, to even consider the thought feasible, anyway. He'd been a mind-controlled, soulless assassin for years, his sins daily touched upon even as he fought to rectify every evil done and every mistake made at his hand. His chosen profession was dangerous, and had the potential to erupt in his face if he put one toe out of line. He was the new face of an old standard, one that he upheld by the skin of his teeth on most days. He was a mess, too much of a mess inside and out, and he couldn't fathom damning a child to have such a father as him in his or her life.

Being an uncle was probably the most that would happen in his life. And he was okay with that. Was more than grateful for that, really. And he let Natasha see that in his face, meeting her eyes once more before taking her hand in his, squeezing tightly before raising it to his lips. The knob on the door rattled a little, and Lila peeked her head in then. At once, the redhead beside him put on a pleasant, polished veneer, the only sign of her previous sadness commuted in a final grasp on his hand.

Burying the pain as well, Bucky turned his attention onto the little girl in the doorway. "Hey, girlie, you find one?"

Lila blinked at his tone, which was much different from his even, noncommittal one he used earlier.

"Yeah," she said, blushing slightly as she looked at him. Holding up the book she'd chosen (it looked like a notebook, with the cover proclaiming it to be written by a girl named Amelia), she asked him, "Would you mind if Auntie Nat reads to me in here?"

Natasha turned to him then, an eyebrow raising slightly, and he shook his head.

"Not at all. I wouldn't mind a story," he told her, keeping his tone even, at least. Pulling his legs up, he crooked his arms around his knees and settled back against the ironwork headboard. Gesturing towards the open space between him and Natasha then, he mumbled, "Hop up, kid."

Taking the invitation, Lila climbed up beside her aunt, opening up to the first page. The book began with Amelia receiving her notebook and being told she would have to move with her mother and sister, and quickly spun out from there. It was a fairly simply narrative, but Bucky was able to listen to it as they went, glancing over when Natasha pointed out one or two of the drawing that were doodled in the margins (it reminded them both of Steve, when his mind wandered during meetings and his notes ended up being used as copies for the team). Shortly, Lila was dozing against Natasha's shoulder, lost in dreams that did not wake her or terrify her. When she noted the sleeping girl nestling into her, the older woman laid the book down, ready to pick her up and bring her to her own bed. At once, Barnes uncurled from his position, sliding off the bed and shaking his head at her.

"I'll take her back," he whispered, pecking Nat on the temple and scooping up Lila before she could protest. Carefully, he carried the little girl through the darkened halls, taking his time on the stairs so as not to disturb the child on the way down. Just as his foot hit the landing for the second floor, the hall was flooded with light, and he staggered a bit as he blinked away the flash of pain in his eyes. When his vision cleared, he was met with the sight of Clint Barton, leaning against the wall near his bedroom door and smirking.

"Barnes," the sandy-haired man said, arms crossed over his chest and bright eyes scanning over him.

"Barton," Bucky responded, unable to stop himself from tensing under his gaze. Though Clint had proclaimed to have no qualms about them—him, really—spending the holiday with his family, he had known he would be under the man's surveillance from the moment he stepped through the door. Though Natasha had assured him that the minute details of his past were not divulged beyond the team, he knew the fellow formerly known as Hawkeye would not be unaware of who he was. The trail he'd left in Europe nearly three years ago had led the man onto his track, and after that, he could only conclude that some reports had slipped through the cracks, via his girl (the man held the title of her closest friend, and he couldn't imagine anybody being able to keep everything from someone like that). He'd confirmed as much when he'd come in for the recruitment sessions in May, going so far as to lightheartedly tease Nat about it all in front of him. He had enough to go on, to judge him and toss him out on his ear. Particularly since his family was exposed to him.

But the judgment he expected wasn't there, or at least it wasn't to the degree that he thought it would be at. Instead, it was a form of acceptance—not calm, certainly, but a type of acceptance ran through him, as if he'd seen his like before.

As if he'd been like Bucky before, he realized slowly.

Shifting the child in his arms, he muttered, "She couldn't sleep, came to Natalia for help."

Barton outright snickered at that, shaking his head ruefully before grinning.

"Of course she did. That girl has got her wrapped around her finger," he stated outright, smiling wider to encourage the other man to see the truth in the humor. When the corner of Barnes' mouth curved, he privately called it a victory. Covering it with a nod, he stepped forward, extending his arms out towards him. "Gimme."

Bucky dipped his chin, complying and handing over Lila without issue to her father. Pivoting, Barton walked to the other end of the hall, the white door covered in flowering stickers opened slowly. Pausing on the threshold, the sandy-haired man looked back at him once more, dipping his chin.

"Thanks," he intoned, the word far too loaded for it be what it was on the surface. Though he couldn't pinpoint what exactly he'd been thanked for, Bucky would not question it. To question it meant he would open himself up to ridicule, and that was not something he wanted to tempt with Barton.

"Not a problem," he murmured instead, dipping his chin. Exhaling sharply, Clint merely turned around then, disappearing behind the half-opened door to put his child to bed. Content in Lila's safety, Bucky made his way back up to the guest room, the darkness returning in moments when the downstairs light clicked off again. Finding his way back, he could see in the dark that Natasha had gotten under the covers again, burrowing under them even as heat poured into the space. With the door shut behind him, he climbed back into the bed with her, nearly knocking the book off its perch on his nightstand. Bucky was barely under the quilt before she turned to him, nestling into his side. He looped his arm low around her, the metal of it muted by her sleepwear. Ticks of the clock in the hall echoed to them through the door, thoughts and feelings in the space crowding their minds for the longest time. Eventually, Natasha let out an audible sigh, her fingers ceased the tracing they'd been doing over his t-shirt.

"You do know we're going to have to finish the book tomorrow, right?" she mumbled into his chest, nuzzling her nose against him as she settled down to rest. "Lila hates unfinished stories."

"'Sokay," he replied, eyelids drooping as sleep started to claim him once more. Despite himself, the corner of his mouth curved, and a chuckle trembled at the back of his voice. "Kinda want to know what happens, myself."

 **xXxXxXx**

Snowflakes peppered the air when they awoke on Christmas morning, another layer added to the patchy one already on the ground. Deciding the best way to save on the hot water with their addition to the household, Natasha had urged Bucky to shower with her. Not about to argue his girl's logic on the matter, he readily complied, the first few minutes spent with barely any pretext of cleaning themselves happening. Eventually, before the hot water truly did run out, they emerged from the cubicle, fully cleaned and ready to go downstairs. Clad in warm clothes—flannel shirt and jeans for him, slacks and a teal sweater for her—the duo walked hand in hand down to the first floor, entering the front room and looking in upon the space. The Christmas tree was lit up, ringed with presents. Tacked to the wall were filled red stockings, one even bearing Bucky's name perched with the rest of the family's and Nat's. Snowflake cut-outs were taped up as well, as they had been the evening before, and they stepped through the garland-covered entry without paying the mistletoe nailed there any mind. The kids, both Lila and Cooper, were at the kitchen table, a present opened in front of each to tide them over until after breakfast. Laura was in the kitchen, mixing something in a bowl while admonishing her daughter to stay put, tempted as she was to sneak another present and open it. The one-year old was on the floor, toddling on wobbly legs around his father as he sat before the desk. The fellow reached down to pat his son on the back before scooping him up, swiveling in his seat and spotting the new arrivals.

"Gosh, can't you superhero folk go one day without making headlines?" Clint chided them, flapping a hand at the computer screen and fixing it with a mock glare. Bucky's brow furrowed, and Natasha lifted an eyebrow at her friend.

"What are you talking about?" she wondered, stepping up to the built-in desk, taking the little guy from his father's arms and perching him on her hip.

The glare broke, and a smirk decorated Barton's lips as he gestured them over to see what was on the screen.

"Looks like Rogers had to give some jerk a verbal shakedown on his flight," he told them both, jerking his thumb at the paused image on the screen. An installation on his computer kept him in the loop as far as what was happening publicly with his old teammates, and one had come through before he could be joined by the others. The block was paused on a sidelong view of Steve, tilted up a bit to better capture him. His body was angled towards a seat a couple of rows down, the coldness of his demeanor plain. Hitting the play button, Clint invited them closer to watch it. "Someone on the flight recorded it, and just uploaded it. Merry freakin' Christmas, right?"

A few seconds went by, the video subtitled due to the unclear audio. After listening and reading Steve's beginning speech, with him assuring the flight attendant that nothing physical would happen, Bucky rolled his eyes as the blond man started to verbally lay into the offender.

"Punk can't keep out of trouble for five minutes," he muttered to himself, though Natasha had heard him clearly.

"Who else does that sound like?" she teased, a wink directed at him before she focused on the screen again. Listening to the implications of the commander's words, she tutted under her breath. "The guy really must have been giving _Solnyshko_ a hard time, if Steve was riled up enough to do that."

Frowns were shared among them all; none of them liked the idea of a grown adult disparaging a baby who had no understanding of what was going on around him. Clint, having been in similar situations with his own children in the past, was fully behind Rogers. It was just so awkward, given how it it had unfortunately taken place on a public platform. Comments were beginning to roll in, some praising the commander for standing up for his son, some wondering exactly where Holly had been during all that, and even a few were berating the poster for putting up the video in the first place. As it was starting to trend on Twitter, he sighed loudly. Thus far, neither Rogers had submitted a comment, and he had a feeling they were either unaware of the posting or determinedly ignoring it. Perhaps it would be best to do so, as well.

Or...

"I need to download this," he crooned to himself, hand on the mouse and working quickly to copy the link to the video. "Use it in case we ever get Nate on a plane."

He reached over, giving his youngest son a little poke on the belly and making him giggle. A bark of laughter cut across the room then, and they all turned to look as the missus of the house shook her head.

"Converter program's on the bottom bar, hon," Laura called over her shoulder as she scrambled eggs in the pan, a sweet look flashing over her face as she met his gaze.

"Thank you, dear," Clint returned, smiling in a way that said the exchange was definitely not a new one between them. Sharing a glance with his girl, Bucky felt his mouth curve as his palm went to the small of her back, guiding them both over to the table to help get things ready for breakfast.

The meal itself passed without much hindrance, Buck able to take the chattering kids and the baby tossing his food onto the floor in stride (evidently, time spent with the team and the littlest Rogers, let alone the fractured memories of his brothers and sister, had him prepared despite his own misgivings). When they were all filled, digesting the bacon and pancakes in contentment, Clint and Laura herded all to the front room, presents distributed and permission granted to open them all. Toys and books littered the floor, games as well coming from the bigger boxes. Treats had been poured from the stockings, with Bucky actually grinning at the chocolate orange that had been wedged into the heel of his. It felt like an echo of the previous Christmas, the first he spent in company in years. It was a bit better this time around though, with the woman at his side telling him not to bogart the chocolate turtles that had been gifted to both of them (an eyebrow spiked at the term, and he asked what Humphrey had to do with any of it, and she chuckled). What really impressed him was the set of composition journals for him, the pages fresh and crisp under his fingers. Along with them came a true-blue fountain pen, something he hadn't used or even _seen_ in a dog's age, and he flicked his eyes up, catching Clint's just as the man smirked and popped a handful of specialty popcorn from the giant tin on the floor in his mouth.

All told, not a bad haul for the holiday, and the company wasn't bad, either.

When the present portion of the day completed, the remainder of the time was delegated to be used as they each saw fit. Having not had a day off, a real day off, since Thanksgiving, Bucky intended to relish the time. That lasted for a couple of hours before he started to explore the house, a little intrigued by the idea of the farmhouse itself. The closest he got to spending time on actual farms were on days when he'd had to hide out in barns on a few assignments that went sideways, so he went about the space eagerly. The house itself was quite large, with spared bedrooms tucked onto nearly every floor and the basement wide open from end to end. Donning his coat and boots, he even explored the yard, with Natasha jokingly remonstrating with him not to wander off. Stepping into the barn itself, he looked at the accouterments housed inside, from the hay stacked up in the loft to the weathered tractor parked at the far end. A lone cow mooed in its stall, the unoriginal name "Bessie" stenciled into the stall door, and he snorted as he strode up to it. The brown and white heifer lowed at him, its head bumping his palm as he reached over to pat her, a lone smile on his lips. Passing the chicken coop on the way out (the scent of both it and the barn lingering his nose as he went) he chose to go the line of the fence, the new inches of snow brushed off as he leaned against the top rail. The peace of it all hit him then, the feeling he got whenever he spent time at Steve's house rising inside him as he looked upon the frozen fields and the iced trees beyond the property lines. All told, it was a good place, open enough to spot approaching unknowns, yet secreted well into the hills and trees. It was calm, safe.

Patting the wooden rail after several long minutes in the cold, he turned back to the house, deciding that it wouldn't be a bad place to spend the next few days at all. Retreating inside, a muted shiver coursed down his spine when the warmth of the foyer encircled him. With coat and boots shucked off and placed to the side on mats and a peg, he glanced around the space, looking for something else to do. An electronic chirp caught his attention down the hall, and he pattered toward it. Locating the source, he raised an eyebrow at the lone occupant of the room, letting a slow breath crawl out his nose.

"Hey, Cooper," the older man greeted the kid from the archway, a spike of interest lacing through his form as he looked at the television. The screen flashed as something exploded, groans and grunts of the alien characters filtering in as the camera swept up to the green-armored soldier standing near a hand.

"Hey," the boy said out the corner of his mouth, his attention riveted to the images flashing by. Obligingly, he slid over on the couch a bit without any prompting, giving Bucky the choice to join him or go as he so chose. With Nat and Clint engaged in reminiscing about old SHIELD missions, and Laura tending to little Nate while Lila snoozed in the front room, he felt that joining the kid was his best option, and so he sat down on the opposite end of the couch.

"So...video games," Bucky began, unsure of what else to say to the young teenager. His eyes focused on the images moving on the television, the perspective of it disorienting him a little. Arms bobbed in and out of the frame while holding strange-looking weapons, green armor wrapped around the character as he darted from a vehicle to an alien base. Some squat, lizard-looking creatures were protecting it, but Cooper directed the character to attack them. He barely blinked as he pressed the buttons on the controller, but once he was finished, he chanced a glance out the corner of his eye.

"...Yeah," he stated quietly. He wasn't sure what to make of the guy Nat had brought with her—he was her boyfriend, he supposed, and he was also the new Captain America, but that was all he had to go on at that point. As well as that, he'd been told by his father that he was from the same time as Captain Rogers, one of his old friends adjusting to life again after bad stuff had happened to him. From his experience the previous evening and during the day, all he could glean was that he was really quiet. Withdrawn, his mother might say, unsure. He was probably just as nervous to be around them as they were around him.

Taking that observance into account, he flicked his gaze between the screen and the older man. "You play?"

Bucky shook his head slowly. "Never have."

Cooper blinked at that. The guy may have been old, but he was living in the world again. How was that even possible?

"What? Not even Super Mario?" he asked, throwing out the abbreviated title of one of the oldest games he'd ever played. The brunet man tipped his head back, examining the ceiling for a few seconds.

"Well, I knew a guy named Mario, used to live in Little Italy. Kind of a moron," he tacked on, blurry memories coming to the fore. Tipping his head back down, he flicked a few fingers in the air. "But, no. What's the one you're playing?"

"Halo 2. It's a classic," Cooper pronounced with all seriousness. The older man barely withheld a snort, but the corner of his mouth curved.

"I'm sure," he retorted, with the boy sighing and resuming the game. A few minutes of silence stretched between them, curiosity lighting Bucky's features little by little as the seconds marched on. Shooting a sideways glance at the kid, he wondered, "How do you play?"

It was Laura who noticed the lack of super-soldier and teenager first, her avid gaze running around the open space that linked the kitchen to the front sitting area and finding neither in sight. With her daughter crashed out on the sofa across the way, and with her youngest finishing with his snack of extra potatoes, she wiped her hands clean, pulling the high chair closer to the table.

"Two of our party are missing," she mumbled under her breath, rising from her seat to investigate the occurrence. As she tripped out of the room, Nat and Clint raised their eyebrows at one another. About to ask what was going on, the redhead was cut off by the brunette's return, delighted amusement written all over her face. She hooked a thumb back the way she'd come, and announced, "Cooper and Bucky are playing video games in the den."

Natasha blinked rapidly, a breathy chuckle escaping her lips. "I'm sorry, can you repeat that for me, please?"

Doing as she was asked, Laura smirked, not surprised in the least when her husband shot out of his seat. Pausing to make sure Nate was secure, he plotted a path to the arch.

"Oh, I've gotta see this," he said, beckoning the two women to follow. The three adults quickly and quietly tripped out of the kitchen and across the hall to the den. They paused in the arched frame, all of them looking towards the far end of the room where the wide couch and television were set up.

"Gotcha again, kid," Bucky triumphantly proclaimed, a smug smirk perching on his face as he annihilated the boy once more. The victory was declared onscreen, and he looked inordinately proud of his achievement. For his part, Cooper groaned loudly in frustration, dark hair shifting as he shook his head harshly.

"C'mon! We've been using needlers the last three rounds," he groused as the screen went back to the menu. Focusing on it, he clicked through the display, going into the weapons selection and changing them almost viciously. "We're switching to rocket launchers."

Bucky's shoulders lifted, his head tipping to the side as he readjusted his grip around the controller.

"Do whatever you want, kid," he said, the barest hint of humor surfacing at the back of his voice.

The next round began, the pair of players set to hunting one another against the alien landscape and their focus entirely on the screen. The three in the arch muffled their chuckles before backing out, trailing back into the kitchen.

"Now I know what to get him for his birthday," Natasha murmured in good humor, sitting at the wide harvest table and snickering lightly. Little Nate smiled at her from his seat, prompting her to retrieve him from his high chair and let him bounce a bit in her lap. Laura sat down beside her, shaking her head as her husband took the chair at the head of the table, significant glances passing between them.

"I should be more worried about him bonding with my son over shoot-'em-ups, but it's more than he's done in awhile," she stated, hands coming up to rest on the table. Tapping against the grain of the wood, she declared, "Cooper's getting sick of the homeschooling thing, doesn't talk to the kids in the pool anymore if he can help it."

Natasha grimaced in sympathy.

"Well, he is thirteen. Almost fourteen. It's a tough time."

Laura nodded in understanding, shaking her head as Nat shrugged. It was tough for the brunette woman as well, being both his mother and his teacher, knowing her son was on the precipice of sliding into the final years of his childhood and dealing with everything that came with it. Add in the fact that he had Clint's blasé attitude on occasion and his stubbornness, it made the brewing, hormonal storm on the horizon that much more ominous.

"Yeah," Clint agreed, scratching the back of his neck and snorting to himself. Under his breath, he muttered, "Of course he'd bond with the moody ex-assassin."

"Turned Avenger," Romanoff pointed out lightly, the smirk on her lips morphing into a wistful smile. "Not that you'd know anything about that."

He returned her smile, an eyebrow sneakily spiking at her.

"Nor you," he retorted, dipping his chin and settling in his seat as his wife began to ponder aloud the implications of letting Cooper finally attend the public school in the fall, now that Clint was more or less entirely off the grid. Natasha concurred that it couldn't hurt, at least for a semester, the plans for the future spinning off into the December afternoon.

 **xXxXxXx**

Evening rolled in, and Bucky had taken a seat on the sofa in the front sitting area, sated from his earlier victories. The wide window before him was illuminated by the porch light outside, another drift of snow falling in and out of the pool of light. He was alone at that hour, with only the creaks of the house and the mug of hot cider in his hand as his company. All three of the kids had knocked out over the last hour and a half, their parents tidying up a little before doing the same. True to her aunt's promise, Lila had insisted on finishing the book she'd brought out the night before, both man and woman acceding to her request. Once it was finished, she pattered off to sleep, the holiday excitement finally worn down as she plodded up the stairs. With stern admonishments that he and Natasha get to bed before it was too late, Clint sent him a salute as he went to his bedroom. Natasha gave a long-suffering sigh as she traipsed after him, intent on putting Lila's book back. As the house settled for the night, so too did Bucky. Introspection, which had become his near-constant companion when he was on his own for any extended length of time, was silenced, pushed down in favor of soaking in the calmness of the day. A sink turned on and off, good-nights muffled through the floorboards as he sipped his cider, left out by Laura for them to partake in.

It felt good, and for the moment, all he wanted was to feel good.

Footfalls nearly lighter than air brushed down the steps, and he turned his head in time to see Natasha rise up onto her toes. En pointe, she snatched at the sprig pinned into the frame, fingers brushing a few times before she managed to get a grip. Bucky bit his lip, dutifully smothering his chuckles with more of his drink (with the tall boots she wore most of the time, it was always a little funny, and sweet, to be reminded of the fact that she barely hit five-foot-four in reality). Soon enough, he heard her low crow of satisfaction, her strides bringing her to the couch. Dropping onto the cushion beside him, she coyly grinned when he turned to her, her arm extending above his head with the mistletoe dangling from her fingers.

"Oh, that's so corny, dollface," he said, rolling his eyes and snorting out a laugh. A perfectly-shaped eyebrow spiked at him, and Natasha edged closer.

"Haven't moved, though," she pointed out, shaking the mistletoe above him for effect. Glancing up at it, he directed his gaze onto hers, eyes going half-lidded as he darted a look to her mouth next.

"Like I'd want to," he breathed, blindly setting his mug on the coffee table before them and cupping her face with both hands. Giving her the kiss she had wanted, he took it a little further, nipping at her lower lip and delving in when she opened up to him. When they broke apart to catch their collective breaths, he nuzzled at her temple, smirking in contentment. "Mm, best thing to happen all night."

Fingers wound around the dog tag hanging around his neck, tugging playfully. It was the one she'd given him last Christmas, the stamped star and his name traced with a fingertip as she nestled closer to him.

"You say the same thing about getting your favorite burger after a bad mission," she stated, daring him to refute it with an impish look.

"Burgers don't compare to you, sugar," he told her, thumb brushing along the line of her jaw and his charming grin in place.

"Thanks for the cavities, _Medved'_ ," she joked, another buss pressed to his lips as they both grinned. Bumping the tip of his nose with her own, she rested her head on his shoulder, taking the moment of peace with him while she could. In two days' time, they'd have to return to the madness of their work, and so they basked in the quiet, all the world fading away. Son enough, though, her yawning started to dominate the silence, so she sat up, the arm he'd curled around her falling to her waist as she stretched her back. Patting his knee, she pressed a kiss to his cheek before rising. "Well, I'm tired. Good night."

As she stepped away from the couch, Bucky's eyes remained riveted to her form, a swell and upsurge of feeling within him cresting and rising. A thought, constant at the back of his mind, shoved and pushed its way to the front, driving him onto his feet as well.

"Hold on!" Bucky crooned, following her to the foot of the stairs and catching her wrist when she was a few steps up. Halting her, she turned back to him, her mouth quirking as her eyebrows snapped together.

"What, did I—"

The mixed-up mess of his mind had stilled for the moment, as she had still when he cut her off with a fast kiss. Leaning up toward her, he couldn't help himself. He did not want to help himself, not then, not at that moment.

"Just...love you," he breathed in a rush, his own eyes wide at the pronouncement. That was nothing to the dawning surprise and shock blooming on Natasha's face, and he suddenly felt very boxed in. Taking a step back, he latched his gaze onto her socked feet (green and dotted with snowflakes, silly despite keeping her feet warm) before swallowing hard. "G'night."

"No, no, no! Come back here," she demanded, snatching at the shoulder of his shirt before he could get too far. The fabric tightened under her grip, pulling him up short. Waiting until he turned and looked at her of his own volition, she crept down the steps until she met his eye-line. Airily, she requested, "Say that again."

Slowly, he nodded, moving until his arms could drape around her waist, cold and warm fingers kneading into the material of her shirt as he composed himself again.

"I love you," he repeated, his voice suddenly much smaller than it had been before. Glancing down for a few seconds, he tipped his head to the right, grinning bashfully at her. "I just...I wanted to tell you for ages, but it never seemed like the right time. But now...now seemed right."

Ocean-colored eyes widened even further than before, and she took in a sharp breath.

"You love me?" she returned, confusion in her voice as much as awe. With everything that had happened in the past, all that she shared and confessed, even with the blood and evil staining her hands and her conscience, he could say that. Say that, and mean it? Especially after the newest confession from the previous night still so fresh in their minds? It baffled her, the slightest bit, and she could not help but show it to him.

Sadly, a tight smile creased his lips as one hand cupped her cheek, the pads of his fingers stroking back into her fiery hair.

"That so hard to believe, Natalia?" he asked her then, cornflower gaze raking over her. With all that had happened, with all that she had accepted of him and brought out of him, all the good and the bad that she lived with at his side, how could he not love her? Granted, it had taken a long time for him to even admit it to himself, but once he did, he could not deny it. He did love her; he was in love with her, more than with anybody else that he could remember. Even if he felt he had no right to touch her on most days, that her stains were nothing compared to his, he could not help himself, or the way he felt. He just lacked the courage to tell her so.

Until then.

"So...that's all I wanted to say," he stammered, very unsure of his ground now and not liking the way Natasha stared at him like a deer caught in the headlights. Perhaps it was too soon to say such a thing, although it had been nine months since they first pursued the relationship. Maybe she...he closed his eyes, the hatred and disgust in and at himself choking him. The retreat turned from mental to physical a moment later, as he let go of her, stepping back and sniffing once. "Good night."

Before he could go too far, she snatched at him again, that time grabbing at the fingers of his cybernetic hand. The struggle in her own mind was written all over her face, her mask off so that he could fully understand what was going on. It would have been easy for her to pretend otherwise, to let him go and stew about his impulses while she beat a hasty retreat. After all, the last time such a declaration was made between her and another, she had been left behind, left to face the world and her nights alone when he declared that it wasn't enough. However, she refused to take the easy way out on this. It was something she had done many times in the past, but with him, with James, it stuck at her soul. If she tried, it would physically hurt her, she was certain. But her tongue knocked against the back of her teeth, the words trapped there. Inhaling deeply, she rested her free hand on his chest, his heart thumping away beneath her palm as she found her voice again.

"I adore you, I care for you, I care about you," she proclaimed, strength gathered inside her for every iteration she gave. The sorrowful furrow of his brow melted little by little as her thumb brushed back and forth, the chain of the dog tag shifting as she did so. Staring into his eyes, she winced and muttered ruefully, "It's been literally trained out of me to say that I...feel the same way. But, then again, the fact that I can admit to it sort of negates it...possibly."

A corner of his mouth barely curled at that, the brief humor of her statement gone in an instant. That was something, at least.

"For the record, it's no easier for me to do so, either," he said, the wry tone reminding her of his own trials and travails. Lifting a shoulder, he continued, "I was programmed to feel nothing for so long, it's still somewhat foreign to me. Doesn't make it any less true, though."

"Yeah," she concurred. The clock in the hall upstairs clicked loudly as the seconds went by, the breaths intermingling with the sound. Natasha stepped closer, the full length of her body pressed to Bucky's, her voice no more than a whisper when she spoke once more. "So...I do, too."

Arms wrapped around her again, their heartbeats nearly thudding in sync as the brunet man held her to him.

"Okay, then," he said, a true smile playing along his lips as he leaned down, capturing hers for several long moments as the storm outside swirled, the last hours of Christmas slipping away.

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm noticing a pattern here...apparently I'm into the holiday-declarations-of-love idea. Although, to be fair, I'm pretty sure Nat and Bucky have been in love and admitting it to themselves for awhile now; this is just the first time they've said it to each other.

My, this has been a busy season, hasn't it? At least as far as relationship developments go...

Probably some people will have a bone to pick with me regarding the first part of the chapter, particularly with Bucky's stance on having a family of his own. Just going from his personal perspective, even though he has achieved a good amount of healing, he most likely would not even think about having children of his own. In his own mind, he sees himself as broken still, and a monster on his worst days, because of his time as the Winter Soldier. Again, it's his personal interpretation. For now, he is more than happy to simply be an uncle.

And you can't tell me he hasn't thought about it at some point, either, even in canon. Probably especially in canon, come to think of it. And I am operating on the premise that, unlike in comic canon, Natasha and Bucky did not know of each other before he shot her the first time. The MCU has yet to actually contradict that, so there ya go.

By the way, Cooper referring to Super Mario Bros. as old, and Halo 2 as a "classic" makes me feel old, even though it's a joke that I made. It's like Peter Parker and the Star Wars remark all over again, ugh...both games are wonderfully good fun, at least.

We get into January next chapter, with a little more Avenger appearances going on there. Among other things...:)

Just a reminder: I have a Twitter account, the handle being PhanProTweets. I do story update Tweets there, as well as random tweets on occasion. And, just as a final note, I did update _Four Seasons_ a few days ago. Check it out if you feel so inclined!

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, Super Mario Brothers, the Halo franchise, Amelia's Notebook, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!

Have a good Memorial Day, in honor of those who gave their lives in service.


	15. Chapter 15

The overcast clouds loomed in the sky, threatening to spill as the early January day continued on. Hurriedly, Steve Rogers pulled into the garage set adjacent to his house, the fall of another winter storm drifting around as the tires ground up the salted track. Parking in the unheated space, he let out a fast breath, gaze darting to the empty stall to the left and a hesitant grin curling his lips. Jumping out of his truck, he made his way to the far passenger door, brushing his palms down along his coat before opening it.

"Okay, girl," he breathed to the other occupant of the vehicle. Reaching in, he muttered, "We've only got one shot at this, so let's get this done."

The little character in the seat yipped at him then, her tongue lolling out a bit as she panted. The little corgi bobbed a bit, her energy growing as she realized she was in a safe place, a good place. Picking her up, Steve made the trek from the garage to the back door swiftly. The leash that was clipped to the brand-new collar around her neck dragged through the snow, the little harness used to strap her into the car forgotten as he got her inside. Setting the small dog on the kitchen floor, he bade her to stay inside as he gathered up the remaining finds he'd grabbed on the way home, eagerness flooding through him. It would only be a matter of a few hours before Holly came home after picking up Grant from daycare, and he wanted everything in place.

After all, the plan to bring a dog into the family had been in motion for a few weeks by that point, and he wasn't about to squander the opportunity. He couldn't keep the secret from his coworkers, but he just needed to keep it a little longer.

" _Whatcha looking at, Elsa?" Tony had crooned from behind him, having nudged and tiptoed his way to his side of the desk as he worked. The billionaire had been on-site since New Year's Eve, all quiet grins and proud looks as he paraded Pepper through the planned party at the base. All it took were a few subtle hints, and soon enough everyone who could claim companion status to the couple were crowding around woman, or, more specifically, the hand which bore the engagement ring Stark had gotten for her. Though they had to leave the party early (little Grant just wasn't built yet to keep up with them), Steve and Holly had made sure to congratulate them both, the brunette woman giving Pepper and Tony tentative embraces. It was something of a victory when Pepper did so without issue, and Stark had even managed a handshake for him when he extended the gesture._

 _A few days on, and Tony had turned his mind to the suits he had stored on the premises, doing individual testing and repair for the new year (by that point, Pepper had gone, off to California to check in on her R.E.S.C.U.E. team and make sure their cooperative efforts with SHIELD were still running smoothly). By the end of the month, he intended to reclaim a more permanent spot on the team, and so he had to make sure he was prepared for it. In between his hours refueling with espresso and hacking into the individual computers of his teammates for fun (he took particular delight in sending pop-ups for less-than-reputable sites on Lang's, and advertisements for waxes and buffing tools on Bucky's), he also took to stopping in personally, reasserting his presence and molding himself into the framework of it all once more. Hence his presence in the commander's office, the shared lunch they'd split between them pushed to the side as he angled to find out what the blond man was looking at on his lunch hour._

" _What...oh, that one movie character," Steve responded, confusion evaporating as he realized what Stark was talking about. Sporting a deadpan expression, he turned back toward the monitor. "Has those mystical ice and snow abilities._ _Frozen_ _. Congratulations, you're clever."_

 _The billionaire blinked, huffing out a fast breath after a few moments. "...You know, it's less fun when you actually get the references."_

 _Steve did not even attempt to hide the snarky grin decorating his lips, and he lifted a shoulder. Biting his lip for a moment, he pushed away from the desk and flapped a hand at the monitor._

" _Anyway, to answer your question, I'm looking up something."_

 _Taking the prompt, Tony crept closer, bending a little and peering at the screen. Blindly, he reached for the mouse, using the scroller to edge down the page as he read._

" _Dog food, bedding, toys and treats of the canine variety...huh," Stark tutted after a few minutes, backing away and turning to rest his backside against the desk's edge. "Now, if I didn't know any better, I would say you're looking into something very specific. Like getting a dog."_

 _The commander grinned. "Once again, showing off your intelligence, Tony."_

 _The brunet man blew out a short whistle. "You sure about this? Dogs are a big commitment."_

" _So are children, and I have one of those already, too," Steve pointed out. Scratching the back of his head, his gaze cut away, the flippancy in his voice drying up in a moment. "I actually thought about getting one earlier, before Grant was born, but, well...you know how it was."_

 _Tony grimaced. The memories of those days, of what had been lost, of what had been strained and nearly broken, rushed through his mind in mere seconds._

" _Unfortunately, yes," he huffed out in a sigh. Shaking his head, he jerked a thumb at the computer screen and attempted levity once more. "So, you want the golden retriever to go with the white picket fence and apple pie life?"_

 _The commander let the lightness of the tone fill the space, a half-smile dawning little by little._

" _Don't have a fence yet, and I prefer apple cake, actually." Leaning forward, he took the mouse in hand again, dragging the cursor over to the correct tab and clicking it to show his compatriot. "I have a specific dog in mind, and it's a different breed altogether."_

 _Glancing at it, Stark nearly did a double-take, wry chuckles pouring out of him_

" _Oh, wow. You are going for Internet points on that one, aren't you?" he ribbed the blond man, scrubbing a palm over his forehead before clapping him on the shoulder and finally leaving him to his tasks._

Truth be told, Steve wasn't going for anything but just to have the dog. Doing his own private research over the last few months, nothing had really clicked, but he soon enough hit pay-dirt with the Pembroke Welsh corgi. She'd been put up for adoption a few weeks prior, the family she'd come from unable to care for her any longer due to the rapid expansion of it over the last few years. She was no puppy; the website listed her as five years old, trained in a few simple commands and having been around children beforehand. Of course, he could not assess her true nature until he met with the dog, and so he'd found the time prior to Christmas to meet with the handlers caring for her—hence why he could not justify getting another car from his brother-in-law. He had budgeted instead for an addition to the family, instead. Satisfied with her progress, and charmed by the ball of fluff's bounding happiness upon seeing him, he couldn't resist. Setting a time for after the new year to get her, he took off early from the office, nearly flooring it to the small kennel outside Albany to fetch her up. He got her, and he also got the needed supplies for her, which were held at a store in the city (a little extra cost to do so, but he did it gladly to avoid the crowds and people gawking at him with the small dog in his care).

As the clock wound down, Steve found spots for all the supplies he'd gotten for the little dog, dishes set out in the kitchen and a box of toys placed near the record player. A small niche in the hall upstairs was the right size for the plaid-patterned bed for her, in which she happily lounged for several minutes while he hooked up her leash and harness in the downstairs closet. Calling her name, she bounded down the steps, a rocking-horse cadence given by her shorter legs as she went to him. Keeping her in place with cheerful words and a command to sit, he managed to wrestle on the final touch, tying off a bow around her collar before picking her up. Placing them both on the couch, Steve checked his watch a few times in between petting the little animal, the excitement in him ratcheting up when the grind of car tires crunched outside. The corgi's ears pricked up, and he gave her a last pat to her back as they waited.

The back door creaked open, and suddenly the corgi was off like a shot, barely pausing when she flopped off the couch onto the ground. Nails clicked rapidly as she went to see the new arrivals, followed by a rapid gasp. Steve tilted his head back against the cushions, smiling at the ceiling when he heard it.

"There's a furry potato in my home. With a bow," Holly's voice floated in from the kitchen, the baby's crowing following as the door clicked shut in the frame. Raising it, she called out, "Steve?"

Taking that as his cue, Steve got off the couch, hands tucked into his pockets as he entered the room. The little corgi waddled around Holly's legs, sniffing and tongue lolling out a bit before excited yips followed. As an unbidden grin formed on Holly's face, Steve felt something inside his chest start to loosen, and he strode over to them.

"Hey, sweetheart. Buddy," he greeted them both, kisses pressed to both their heads. Maintaining his pleasant expression, he asked, "How was the drive back for you?"

Noticing his deliberately affected tone, she felt her brow furrow.

"It was alright," she replied, adjusting her son in her arm. Pointedly, she glanced down to the little dog milling around her legs, another fast smile shot to it before she eyed up her husband again. "Care to explain where the corgi came from?"

"Uh, well...merry belated Christmas," he supplied almost sheepishly, scratching at the back of his neck. Perhaps he should've hinted at the dog being an early birthday present for her, given that her expression had barely shifted in humor. Shaking her head, she tapped his shoulder with a finger.

"Cute, but you know that's not enough."

Deflation came into his face, but he hid it as the corgi pawed at his foot, a little yip pushed out of her as she demanded his attention. Conceding to her wishes, he got down onto his knees, giving her a fast belly rub when she turned onto her back. Biting his lip, he took a moment to formulating the reply he'd intended to give his wife from the moment she'd discovered the animal, and he swallowed.

"I know, I'm just trying to come up with an explanation that won't sound sad or childish." He swallowed, brushing his hands off on the sides of his jeans as he rose from the floor, the fluff from the dog's body floating down. Licking his lips, he started, "I, uh, never really had a pet when I was a kid. I was hard enough to take care of, you know?" A rueful look was shot to his wife, who winced in sympathy at his words. Shrugging a shoulder, he went on, "Didn't need an animal thrown into the mix, not for my mom. Times were tough, too, and it wasn't feasible. Then I got...bigger, and busier, so it just didn't happen."

The little corgi gave a small bark then, the tag on her collar clinking as she waddled beside him again. Glancing down at her, he couldn't hold back on a genuine grin.

"But, well, I've got a bit more time nowadays, and I guess I just thought that...families have dogs. Or cats, too, not that there's a cat around here...point being, we're a family, and I, I wanted our family to have a pet. And she's a sweet one, too, so I thought we could give it a chance."

His speech finished, he dipped his chin down, thumbs hooking into his pockets and actually scuffing his toe against the hardwood floor. Posing like that, he appeared all of twelve years old, justifying his actions to whatever authority figure was hearing him out. Holly felt her heart break a little bit; though he had his friend and his mother growing up, it still probably got lonely at times for him. She'd heard his stories, of his mother trying her best and not always being able to be around for him, about how Bucky's family could only do so much. If it hadn't been viewed as a risk (and if the economy was decent enough for the idea to be feasible for his family), he probably could have done with an animal companion. Grant gurgled in her arms, and glanced down at him. The little guy was looking up at his daddy, almost as if he knew something wasn't right, and his tiny hand flapped toward him, as if to catch him and draw him near. Stepping forward, she turned the little guy towards him more, with Steve's face lighting up as both dog and baby entered his circle. Taking up Grant in his arms, adoration and joy appeared to flood through him, and she sighed.

"That's sweet of you, truly," Holly pronounced, shifting closer as she threaded her fingers into her husband's hair. Drawing him in for a kiss, she murmured against his lips, "But we still should have talked about this before you actually, you know, bought the dog."

He nodded at that as he drew back, acknowledging the truth of the statement. Still, when he spoke, he acknowledged it with a bit of cheek.

"Technically, I adopted her," he said, lips quirking as he brought up a placating palm. "And I know we should have, but I did want it to be a surprise."

Together, they looked down at the little dog, still milling between them and nosing at their legs.

"We can...we can find her another home, if you don't like her," he said, gauging his wife's reaction and finding it hard to read. Maybe he really shouldn't have dropped this on her...

Dark eyes flashed in effrontery at him, and she clicked her tongue.

"I never said that! I barely know her. Just give me a minute, okay?" she said, scrubbing a hand over her forehead. One finger lingered along the scar above her eyebrow, and she let out a short breath. Flicking a few fingers at him, she told him, "Take Grant, get him fed, let me get to know the pup for a bit."

A slow smile bloomed on Steve's lips as he did as she asked, getting their boy settled and spoon-feeding him some more the disgusting paste that passed itself off as baby food. From his spot perched beside the high chair, he watched Holly out the corner of his eye, with her dumping her coat and boots to one side before sitting on the floor. At once, the corgi trotted over to her, leaping into her lap and nuzzling at her hands and face. Despite her earlier reticence, his wife melted as she gave the dog pats and hugs. For a moment, the corgi ran off into the living room, returning with a tennis ball that had been picked out for her that afternoon. Dropping it beside Holly, she waited until the woman picked it up, engaging the animal in the impromptu game of fetch. She giggled as the corgi ran back and forth to grab the ball each time she tossed it, the gentle underhanded motions delighting them both.

Grant was nearly finished with his dinner when Holly seemed to straighten in her seat. When the little dog got close enough, she gathered the fur around her neck in her hands, making direct eye contact with the small animal.

"Okay, Spud, you're sweet and all, but here's the deal: you bite my baby and you're gone, _capisce_?" she said, all authority in her tone. Her eyebrows inclined as she laid down the law, not giving an inch for a moment or two. For her part, the corgi blinked, paws suddenly coming to rest on the woman's stomach and propelling her up to lick her face. Stifling a few giggles, Holly gave her a few pats. "Good, glad we reached that understanding."

Steve felt relief flood through him at that, even as he admonished her, "She does have a name."

Holly shot him a look, before mockingly slapping her forehead in penance. "My apologies, Miss...?"

"Bonnie," he supplied, smirking as he gave his son the last spoonful of the food and cleaned up the corners of his mouth.

"Really," she returned, a glimmer in her dark irises as she palmed the tag on the dog's collar and read the truth for herself. Looking down at the pooch, she ruffled the scruff of her around her collar and asked her, "Where's your Clyde, sweetie?"

Steve snorted at that. "Don't think she had one before I got her."

"Just means she'll live longer, right? No shoot-outs in a gulch for this pup," she declared, slow affection filling her face as she gave Bonnie a few rubs. "She is adorable."

Her husband nodded, gladness filling him as he removed their son's bib and took him out of the high chair. Setting the baby in his lap, he cuddled the little guy close as he warmed to the theme of singing the dog's praises.

"And she's been trained. Not only to, you know, go outside and sit up and that sort of thing, but to be around children." Holly hummed at that, a frisson of relief flitting over her features, and Steve continued, "Corgis are herders, and do have a tendency to nip and bark, but she's been taught well. So far. I mean, from the times I've met with..."

He trailed off, the tips of his ears burning pink as he realized he'd given his game away. Letting her eyebrows rise, Holly got off the floor, striding over to him and tipping his chin up with a few fingers.

"You've had this planned for awhile, haven't you?" she inquired, already knowing his answer just from the caught-out look on his face. Still, she smirked a bit when he blinked and gave her a lopsided grin.

"Uh, well...I wanted to be sure about the surprise before following through," he said, reminding her that, for all his wishes and wants, he would not charge into the endeavor half-blind.

Holly, for her part, pressed a peck to his forehead, the decision to let the little dog stay made as she sauntered over to the silver dishes sitting across the room, the bag of dog food grabbed up from the counter and poured into one of the bowls. It would be a process, adjusting to having a pet to care for along with a baby, but Bonnie seemed to fold into the flow without too much difficulty. Sure, she had quite a bit of energy despite her size, and she had a tendency to shed almost at will on everything, but she tempered it with affection given to her new owners. An affection that was growing daily with them, and returned as well.

"Personally, I love how you went for the little dog," Natasha told him as they sat in the living room a couple evenings later. Given how both Steve and Bucky had running lists on what to catch up on over the course of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, they had found a few things crossed on them. A good majority of the movies they'd been told to watch matched, and so Nat and Holly had taken it upon themselves to construct movie nights on occasion. That night, the Black Widow and the new Captain America arrived with the intent on beginning the trilogy of some recent pirate films (though the fourth was derided between the females and would definitely be put off for another time). Intrigued by the notion of an update to a genre both had enjoyed back in the day, the men were eager to begin. Snacks and such were placed upon the coffee table, with Holly grabbing drinks and Bucky excusing himself for the time being. Natasha had already taken Grant out of his father's hold, cuddling him while at the same time admiring the newest addition to the family. Bonnie had greeted them both at the door with enthusiasm; how could she not like her?

Which brought her to sitting on one end of the couch, Steve on the other, and her eyebrow spiking as she considered his choice. "You know, corgis are the breed that are known to have the 'short man' complex."

The blond man grunted at that, reaching down the animal pattering by his feet and giving her a few pets.

"Don't know what you're talking about," he replied, brushing off his teammate's words with a shrug. "I just thought she was a good dog."

Nat let her mouth curve more at that.

"Sure. Well, Bonnie, you've got moxie," she complimented the animal as she approached the couch, smiling down at her.

That proclaimed, the female dog nuzzled at her leg for a moment, turning and trotting over to the armchair. It had been vacated mere moments beforehand, and she decided it was fair game. Executing a short term of jumping and wiggling, Bonnie eventually wormed her way onto the seat, using a couple of throw pillows on the ground as a stepping stool to get onto it. A pleased air seemed to settle around her as she flopped onto the cushion. Her two front paws dipped over the edge, and a sort of smile appeared on her muzzle as she lifted her head proudly.

Natasha snorted at the display, shaking her head. "And now that's her chair."

"Looks like Bucky's going to have to learn to share it, now," Steve mused aloud, chuckling to himself.

"Yeah, we'll see how well that goes," the redheaded beauty riposted under her breath, just as Bucky came back down from the bathroom upstairs. Upon entering the living room, he paused beside the chair, looking down at the new occupant with a spike eyebrow. Bonnie looked up at him, a small yip and panting her response as she stayed put. A few breaths of silence passed, with the man and woman on the couch awaited his reaction. Slowly, Bucky reached down, scooping the small dog off the cushion, actually hugging her to his chest as he sat down again. With a few scratches dealt to her head and her fluffy body, he sat down, laying her in his lap and complimenting her in low tones. Catching the sets of raised eyebrows thrown up at his behavior, Bucky snorted, purposefully petting the little dog in his lap and leaning back in his seat.

After all, the problems and trials of his life had never been caused by an animal, and so he had no reason not to want to give some attention to one. Especially one that had claimed his spot and demanded it in such a way.

Natasha gave an audible, playful scoff at his display. "Oh, so that's how it is?"

"Guess the dog has good taste," Bucky stated almost blandly, save for the flicker of delight in his eyes. Scritching under Bonnie's chin, he smirked as her head lolled back, a silent demand for more in the gesture. "Don't you, sweetheart?"

"Oh, great," the redhead groused in good nature. Grant gave a little yell in her lap, and so she lifted him up, giving a broad smile before darting a look over to her partner. "I'm gonna have to compete for your affection now, huh?"

"Yep," the brunet man retorted, scanning over his girl and the baby she held. "Just like how I'm competing with the rug-rat."

Natasha gave a mocking gasp, sitting Grant back down and tickling at his belly.

"Uncle Bucky insulted you, _Solnyshko_. What are you going to do?" she asked the baby in her lap. For his part, Grant looked up at his aunt, all big blue eyes and sucking on the pacifier his father had passed to them. When he did no more than curl his fist around the cloth of her shirt and tug, she snickered, nuzzling into his hair and smirking. "Good choice. Don't dignify it with an answer. Already showing how much more common sense you have than both your dad and your uncle."

"Hey!" said men grumbled in unison, twin looks of frustration on their faces. Holly, coming back in from the kitchen with a couple uncapped beers in hand, rolled her eyes.

"She's not wrong," she murmured, handing her husband one of the bottles as she settled back onto the middle cushion of the couch.

"Come on," Steve groaned, only to be met with a forefinger extending at him and shaking lightly.

"You've jumped out of a jet without a parachute. On more than one occasion, by your own admission," Holly pointed out calmly. Her eyes narrowed a fraction, and she went on, "Try to argue with me."

To that, her husband's jaw clenched, and he shook his head before taking a long pull from his bottle and glancing away. Satisfied, Holly pivoted on the cushion to the right, reaching out and taking her son's hand in hers as he was still cradled by his aunt.

"He's shield-sledded down the stairs before," Natasha offered then, tipping her head in Bucky's direction and grinning mildly. Both Steve and Holly shot looks at her, one chagrined and the other tickled at the thought. Nodding in confirmation, the redhead cooed at Grant before going on, "It was part of 'testing its capabilities.'"

She brought up a hand to perform air quotes around the last few words, dropping it with a sly smirk cast at her boyfriend. Bucky stared at her for a long, hard minute, his brow furrowed and his lack of amusement clear. After that minute, he sighed through his nose, scratching Bonnie between the ears and cuddling her a little closer.

"...Yep, the dog is definitely coming in ahead of you right now," he stated succinctly, to which his girlfriend merely cast her eyes heavenward and picking up the little guy to bounce a bit in her lap. Both dog and baby looked pleased at the increase in attention they both were receiving, each nestling against their holders. Snickering to himself, Steve looked to his wife, who was gesturing at him with an open palm.

"Anything to add?" she inquired innocently, causing his eyebrows to furrow.

"You're not as cute as you think you are," he replied promptly, determinedly taking a sip of beer. Shaking her head, Holly merely leaned forward, a smacking kiss planted on his cheek and a giggle floating out when he grumbled in false annoyance.

"Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart," she murmured as she sat back, grabbing up the controls from the coffee table and finally starting the movie. All chatter ceased once the film began to play, the scene onscreen eventually dissolving into mist, the bow of a ship appearing slowly with a little girl singing a morbid pirate song. Steve and Bucky became riveted to the movie as it progressed, greatly enjoying the action sequences and swashbuckling swordfights. By the end of the film, when the notorious captain flipped his compass shut and turned the wheel of his beloved ship, they were both actually begging to go onto the sequel. With the lateness of the hour, and the promise of another mission in the morning for a few of them (and filing for Holly, which required her to not fall asleep at her desk), it could not be so, but when Natasha and Bucky returned from performing fieldwork, they made a plan to go onto it. As Steve showed his friends to the door, Holly got Grant into bed, the baby having passed out roughly when the first battle between the cursed ship and the stolen one started. Bonnie had trotted along with them, little pants and clinking collar mixing in with the creaks of the house settling. With the baby in his crib, she could help her husband continue with the clean-up downstairs, which took a bit of time considering that the dishes from dinner hadn't been taken care of yet. With the snacks put away and the dishwasher sanitizing what was in the sink, the brunette woman blew out a breath, her brow furrowing as she realized something.

"Where's Bonnie?" she wondered, turning to her husband with a quizzical expression. By nature, Bonnie yipped and gave little grumbles in the throat, and only barked when strange things entered her territory; her high-pitched yelps when Bucky and Nat showed up were a testament to that. However, in general, she didn't make a terrible amount of noise, once she settled down. Granted, their experience of her was only a few days' time, but they did learn that much. Where could she have slipped off to? Thinning his lips, Steve pattered to the second floor, imploring her to check out the basement, which the little dog was fond of plodding down to when she could (all the dust in the far corners seemed to intrigue her, and she liked to follow the man of the house whenever he went to use the weight set or box). Checking, a sliver of worry began to filter through her system when she came up empty. Returning to the main floor, she ran a hand over her hair, tsking under her breath as she paused by the front door, fingers tapping in a slow rhythm as she waited for her partner to return. Heavy steps pulled her from her musings, and she glanced up to see the blond man before her resting an arm against the banister, a glimmer flashing over his eyes.

"Come with me," Steve said, beckoning for her to follow him up the stairs. As she quirked her brow and complied, he let the corner of his mouth curve. "I think I found out who her true favorite is."

To the nursery they went, the door partially open from when Holly put the baby to bed nearly a half hour earlier. The Micky Mouse lamp on the dresser was still lit, but otherwise the room was shadowed and still. The pool of light touched the edges of the crib, wherein Grant's little snuffling breaths were pushing out of him in his sleep. And there, burrowing into one of the blankets on the floor at the foot of the crib, was Bonnie, sleeping soundly and guarding the young one in the night. The sweetness of it made Holly open her mouth in a silent 'aww', while her husband crossed his arms over his chest and smirked in smug satisfaction.

"And you thought she was gonna bite him," Steve whispered, chuckling silently as she stepped away from the door. Pulling the panels closer to the jamb but not latching it, she turned to face her husband and sent him a mocking glare.

"Yeah, well, _you_ can bite me," she remarked, a playful smack dealt to his shoulder. With both the baby and the dog assuredly safe, she let the minor concern in her drift away.

"That I promise I can hold you to?" he asked her in a low tone, spiking an eyebrow suggestively. The roll of her eyes and the bird she flipped him as she walked away belied the mischievous set of her face, and he smiled slyly as he followed her back downstairs to lock down the house for the night.

 **xXxXxXx**

The sun had set over an hour ago, but that was hardly anything spectacular. Sunset that far north always came earlier than one wanted in the midst of winter, even more so to sleepy, small villages such as Point Hope, Alaska. The freshly-plowed streets stretched out, wide burrows made so that snowmobiles, trucks, and ATVs could traverse without hindrance. At least, until the next storm hit. One such ATV sputtered away from a trailer parked all the way east, just off the road and a little ways from the homing block there. A couple of people still out and bundled up in the cold waved at him as he passed, with him making a fast two-finger wave to them as he went. Cutting across to the northern edge of the city, he soon enough was parked alongside the bar there, going in start cracking at the books. The official accountant for the ramshackle place was on a bender, more often than not, and so he had stepped into the role. He was termed as a consultant as far as the paperwork was concerned, but it didn't bother him any. He was used to deception and underhandedness by that point. It didn't matter that he had no official title. He barely had an official name.

And that name was a lie, anyway. Not that anyone there knew that. He was just a stranger, crawling in as the seasons changed, all thick beard and a man of unruly hair streaked with gray, bushing out from his head. In truth, he stuck out no more than any backwoods fellow would, though it was clear to the locals who knew him that he was not of that caliber. No, when he arrived, he performed a few odd jobs for the city, the quiet presence as roads were cleared and loads of goods were brought into the store across town. Soon enough, he was knit into the fabric of the community, a mysterious personage that balanced the books and made orders as needed for the tiny pub. All by design, of course.

He could not afford it to be otherwise, not with all that had happened before.

Setting himself up in the office at the end of the hall in the back, he breathed a quiet hello to the bartender as he strode inside, a native Inuit man of an age with him and just as unassuming. A few of the townspeople, a good number of fishermen as well as a couple of teachers from the school looking for a break, milled about the front room, but they did not pay him much mind. He often worked at night, the back office his sanctuary as the weathered jukebox pumped out some country or classic rock hit and the voices turned loud and raucous. Closing himself off, he sighed, removing his heavy winter gear and tossing it atop the metal cabinets wedged into the corner. The room was no more than a glorified closet with a heavy lock to protect the safe within from theft, a tony desk shunted in and piled with papers as well as the ancient computer. Booting it up, he turned his attention the actual paper ledger the bar owner preferred, grabbing a pencil and starting on the notations as he waited for the accounting program to fire up. What he was doing miles away from his past exploits, downright simple and hardly much effort at all. However, it did manage to keep him busy. It put food on the table, making his budget stretch a little more, he reminded himself as he put his glasses on, fetched up from the breast pocket of the flannel he wore. The savings he'd acquired over a year and a half ago had not run out, but he was not willing to let that dwindle to nothing. He could not rely on his luck to hold out in that regard. The dull chatter and the whir of the music blended with the churn of the old computer, the blocky keyboard clacking as he typed and matched the figures, cross-referencing the purchases against the income.

However, he could not lose himself in the work; a feeling nagged at the back of his mind, setting his shoulders on edge and his brow creased. He'd felt it since the night before, felt a shadow tailing him throughout his day. As vigilant as he was, he could spot no aberrations, no unfamiliar faces in the sparse sea of the town, but his unease did not lessen. As he sat there, doing his work, he could feel it crackle, the air humming as he waited for whatever was on his trail to arrive. Unlike before, when he could feel such occurrences, he would not run from it.

No, he intended to face it head-on. Should it come.

And come it did, as the door behind him creaked open. His spine stiffened, with his hand on the keyboard freezing and the pencil in the other dropping onto the book. The looming presence had arrived, took up the door frame, a slight inhalation coming the heels of feet shifting on the uneven floorboards.

"When I first set out to find you, I did not expect it to be a place such as this. But then again, perhaps I can understand the reasoning."

The man at the desk closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping as he let out a low breath. Removing the knit cap on his head, he raked his fingers through his curls, tossing the article atop the opened log book. Scratching down to the full beard he'd grown, he turned in the chair, swiveling to face the veritable blond behemoth in the doorway. A thick, fur hat was removed; the flaps obscuring the face along with a scarf and goggle were pulled away and tossed to one side.

Thor looked pretty good, all things considered. Even when belted down in a heavy coat and jeans (where he'd gotten them, he would never know).

Bruce Banner only wished that he could be the same.

"Well, it's Alaska in the dead of winter. Can't get more remote than that," the brunet man pointed out, a half-smile directed at his old friend. "Seemed to be the best choice at the time."

Striding into the tiny office (which seemed that much smaller with the god's frame folding into it), Thor reached out a hand. Rising, Bruce took it, expecting a shake. Instead, he got pulled into a hard bear hug, the breath in him squeezed out for a few moments. That exchanged, the bigger perched himself on the folding chair that had been acting as an additional storage surface, the ledgers atop it set gently on the floor first.

"And what time was that?"

"Four months ago." A wry twist came to his lips, a bittersweet lighting his irises before he stared at his feet again. Ever since he took off, after the Battle of Sokovia, he'd been wandering the world, much as he did when he'd first become the Hulk and needed to run. To process everything that had happened, to come to terms with everything that happened…with everything he would have to leave behind…he'd done it again, never staying in one place too long, using the borrowed money and falsified documents provided by Fury and Hill to move without hindrance. That time, though, he wasn't treating illnesses or working a factory. He'd opted for a different kind of obscurity. Evidently, it wasn't obscure enough. "Funny, I thought that if someone came looking for me, it would be Tony, or..."

Bruce trailed off then, his dark eyes cutting down to his boots as he sighed. Understanding his meaning all too well, the god did not press him to continue. Instead, he waited until the doctor cleared his throat, nodding at the blond fellow before him.

"I thought you were off-world."

The god let his face fold in thoughtfulness, the hints of frustration and dissatisfaction creasing his brow.

"I was. It has been...not as productive as I had wished," he confessed, bright gaze sweeping up and connecting with his friend's darker one. "I need your aid."

Bruce sat there, stunned as he listened to the blond fellow elaborate on his trials. Of the months spent searching for answers, of finding nothing in the learning halls of Asgard, nor could any of his comrades divulge more than most general of knowledge. Of how the sparse contacts he'd made off-world hinted at something more, the puppet-master holding the string still beyond the pale. There was no name, no connection, but there were whispers, rumors, and all of them had fizzled in his grasp when he tried to take them. The last of his leads had yet to be pursued, would take him even farther than he'd gone before, and for that reason, he sought out Banner. The doctor sat in silence for a long time after he'd completed his tale, the jukebox down the hall blasting some Garth Brooks and the people of New Hope ignorant as ever of the goings on beyond their scope.

Swallowing hard, he blinked before scrubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

"What exactly could I do?" he asked Thor, palms out as he implored him. "I'm a burned-out, washed-up physicist and radiation specialist mutate, Thor. One step ahead of the law and one foot in...what good would I be?"

Bruce's career, his very life, had been littered with one failure after another. Loss of control had destroyed cities, colleges. Loss of himself had laid relationships and choices to waste. His judgment could not be relied upon; his temperament definitely could not be counted on. To his mind, there was nothing he could do for his friend that would not result in worse damage than before. He did not want to bring that upon anyone else's life. Hence why he'd left, more than once. However, the god sat before him, hands folding into his lap and his steadiness compelling the doctor to listen as he spoke once more.

"You have always been good, Doctor Banner. You have a chance to be so again. You have a working knowledge of the universe, a practicality that is sorely needed to approach this issue." Spying the hard edge of resolve in his friend starting to weaken, Thor pressed his advantage. "You can see things that I cannot. And, to be blunt, you have the wherewithal to stand toe-to-toe with any dissenters of Asgard, even on your worst day."

The allusion made them both grin wanly, though Banner's barely appeared on his lips before the grimace returned. Sighing, Thor made his last bid, hands out and pleading. He truly needed his help; he did not know what he would do without his aid. He feared the worst would come, and there would be nothing he could do to hinder it. Not on his own.

"Please, Bruce."

The smaller man shrank back into his creaking chair, his brown eyes darting from him to the contents of the box-sized room, thoughts whirring faster than could be comprehended at that moment. Every doubt, every fear that had built and fueled Bruce's rage and frustration was bubbling in him, his heart thumping in his chest. He wouldn't lose control, could not allow himself to do so. Still, he reasoned it would only be a matter of time. That it had been a matter of time before, and he could not allow the cycle to continue. If he'd wished, he could remain in obscurity, refuse to help an old friend and teammate, let the world spin on without him, much as it had for over a year and a half. Deep down, though, a piece of him ached for what he'd given up, for neglecting his chance to right the wrongs he'd wrought. Could he really stay in the barren little town he'd stumbled upon, swath himself in shadow and secrecy forever? Could he really abandon the world, truly?

Could he abandon a friend in need?

He snorted to himself. That was a selfish thought, one that had driven him to leave everything behind before, and look what it had gotten him: a rusty double-wide in the tundra of Alaska, the edges of cold doing nothing to freeze his shame and fury. He was doing alright, but he wasn't doing any good there.

Bruce Banner needed to do some good again.

And, a little voice that sounded suspiciously like a certain tech genius-billionaire, who was he to reject an invitation to traverse past the edges of the globe, across the universe to all that was out there?

Taking a shaky breath, he dipped his chin in the slightest nod, watching as a relieved and contented smile curved Thor's mouth. Glancing back over all the papers he'd been working on, he swiftly calculated how long the work would take, and he frowned. They wouldn't be leaving right that minute, not with the obligations he still held.

"I, I have a few things I need to do first before going anywhere," he warned his friend, to which the blond behemoth nodded. Reaching out, the bigger man slapped his shoulder jovially, though the brightness in his expression did not meet his eyes.

"Several days' time is not difficult to manage, should you need to put your affairs in order," he told him, the light tinge in his voice unable to disguise the sincerity within. "We shall have to move fast after, though."

Bruce let out an audible scoff, rising from his chair to get started. "That, I definitely believe."

 **xXxXxXx**

Even with Thor's promises to wait as long as was needed, it took less than two days for Bruce to get his priorities squared away. With the exception of his clothing and a few books, he'd rented everything else he possessed in the town, and even then the rates were for monthly usage. The double-wide trailer that had been his domicile was paid up until the end of January, and the owner had confidence that h could get someone in before that time, particularly as Banner would leave all furnishings behind. Turning his ATV back to the owner of the bar, he'd given over his resignation as well, citing a need to take care of some urgent business back home. It was accepted, begrudgingly, but the older man simply waved him off and wished him well, too pleased with the fact that the doctor had at least gotten the books up-to-date and the last order for liquors they were low on put in before he went anywhere. With his things, including his books and his forged documents, shunted into a duffel bag, he met Thor on the edge of town, the bracing walk in the cold doing nothing to mute the excitement racing through him. It had been far too long since he'd been with a friend, too long since he'd been part of something bigger than himself.

He'd had no idea how much he'd missed both until he crunched through the ice and snow, meeting the godlike figure in full regalia, hammer twisting in his grip and smiles exchanged as he crept closer to him. Bruce, shouldering his bag, took position at Thor's side, gripping tightly to his cape as the bigger man clamped his vice-like grip around him. Mjolnir was raised at the late morning sky, and the churn in his stomach was not aided by the spiraling vortex of wind and lightning curling around them. The ravel itself boggled his mind; tearing through time and space was nothing he could qualify, before or after the fact. Color seemed to whirl and mess, noise and wind at turns deafening and silent. The pull on his body, on his very soul, jarred him, particularly in the descent. It seemed like only a matter of seconds had passed for them to land at their final destination, but to Bruce it felt as though it would be interminable. When he and Thor touched the ground, the overriding sensations took hold. He would have stumbled under the sheer magnitude of what he'd just experienced had the blond fellow not locked him in with a secure grip. Once he was (barely) steady on his feet, Thor let him go, let him catch his breath.

As discussed the evening before, Thor had taken them both to the new Avengers base, wanting to connect with the team one more time before departing the earth. Having never been there, and only having a distant idea of its existence due to the ever-present gossip that could be heard in the darkest corners of the world. The building was more of a light gray against the stark whiteness of the snow surrounding, black shapes of helicopters and quinjets peeking out from the top lips of the building. The broad A decorated the outer wall of the facade, a straight track running from the lowest point towards the tree break. As the lightning and thunder faded away, Bruce took in a deep breath, regaining his bearings as he stared off over another bank of trees, bare in the winter cold. In the distance loomed a mountain range and he blinked.

Hardly able to take in the scenery, it seemed as though the building burst into life. Dots of bodies filling up the rails and shadowing the inner windows filtered into his vision, and he sharply inhaled as a side hatch opened. Expecting a flood of agents to surround them, Bruce was surprised when only two people came forward, coats and scarves hastily thrown on in anticipation of meeting them. As they drew closer, Banner huffed out a partial laugh, sharing a sidelong glance with the god.

After all, it was quite something to watch Tony Stark run for anything, and to see Steve Rogers hold back on his speed for a friend's sake. Their crunching footfalls halted just feet away from them, shock and surprise fluttering over their features. With a light nudge, Thor bade him to speak first, and after clearing his throat, he did.

"Hey, guys."

The greeting was lame, at best, but it seemed to be enough to break and shake whatever held them still.

"'Bout time you showed up, Grizzly Adams," Tony said, a genuine smile crossing his face as he strode forward. He looked well, Bruce had thought as he was gathered into a brother-like hug. The lines in his brow and around his mouth were a bit more prominent, and his shoulders seemed to slump as if he was burdened with something unnameable, but he seemed to be alright.

"Missed you, too, Tony," he returned, patting him on the back before stepping away. Stark smirked, moving off to the god next and coughing hard when Thor bear-hugged him.

"Doctor Banner." Steve Rogers' greeting was much more subdued, relegated to a handshake and shoulder clap. Physically, the man had not changed much—his haircut was a little different, less like a 90's boy band member's, as he recalled Stark deriding it once. And his blue eyes held a modicum more weight than before. Faint tiredness seemed to outline his face, but he otherwise looked well. Glancing down, he caught the glimpse of a gold band around his left ring finger. He'd heard the gossip about him following through with marrying his girlfriend, but he liked to note the proof himself.

"Captain."

"Ah, ah. That's Commander now," Stark corrected the doctor, once he was released from Thor's hold. Surprised at the pronouncement, he shot Steve a look. The bigger, blond fellow let a corner of his mouth curve, his chin dipping in confirmation.

Vaguely, Bruce recalled some of the news he'd picked up on his teammates, hard at work as ever in maintaining the safety of the world. He did know that there was a secondary team involved now, elsewhere on the globe, and that a roster rotation had occurred as well. Outside of the major battle that had taken place outside of the United Nations hall in New York, all the way back in May, he was unaware of the details. Except for that they'd all survived. Some by the skin of their teeth, if the rumors were to be believed, but they had made it through. A rank change did not surprise him entirely, and he gave quiet congratulations to Rogers after a few seconds.

"There's a few things you need to get up to speed on, I see," the billionaire intoned mildly, a glint flashing across his gaze. Canting his head, Bruce caught Thor's eye and lifted a shoulder.

"It'll have to be at double time," he told them both. "Gonna head out in the morning."

"Ah, yes," Thor agreed. His light eyes lingered on the west, watching as the sun began to set. Lifting a finger, he pointed it at his compatriots. "But supper and strategy must come first before that."

Chuckles went around at that, the briskness of the air cutting through them as the night approached.

"Pretty fortunate that you fellas came when you did. Communal dinner is on the docket for the evening," Rogers stated calmly. A chime came from his ear, the communicator perched there demanding his attention. Frowning at the air, he shared a glance with Stark before lifting a hand to his ear. To Bruce and Thor, he murmured quickly, "I'll join you all then."

That said, he ducked away, all business in his tone as he strode back toward the base. The remaining three shared a look, though Thor shrugged and snickered, striding through the snow with ease after him. The two brunets in the snow watched them walk ahead for a few moments, following in slow steps eventually.

"...Commander?" Bruce asked, an eyebrow rising. Stark lifted one in return, and he smirked.

"Like I said, a lot to catch up on."

And there was. So much had happened in Bruce's absence, he was unsure what to make of it. A short tour of the base was performed, with Banner taking in the walls of glass and the twisting halls leading to the veritable warrens of each department. Thor, having been through the facility multiple times, cried off yet another, instead taking the pass that Tony proffered to bypass security and see to their friends. The ground floors were dedicated to the office-type jobs, such as donations, administration, and even archives tucked into the back corner (Steve's wife worked there, evidently). The labs, testing areas, ranges, and the infirmary landed in the middle, with Helen Cho spotting him from a distance and her jaw dropping in a comical O. Toward the back were the training facilities, branching off the equipment lock-up areas to smaller rooms. The entire top two floors were offices and meeting halls, which Stark spared him from. Nothing fun to see there, unless he was interested in taking on boatloads of paperwork for the day. When Banner gave a humorous and polite decline, his friend snickered, gesturing for him to follow him to an elevator bank towards the back. The apartment facilities housed a good number of agents and technicians, but, as ever, the top floor was given over to the team's use. Out the corner of his eye, Tony looked him over, remarking that he might want to clean himself up before meeting with anyone.

Scratching at the heavy beard on his chin, Bruce couldn't argue with that logic. Escorted through another security point, Stark turned to the left, taking him down a short hall that apparently housed the guest quarters for any high-ranking visitors. Not used to anything better than Formica and prefabricated furniture from the 1970's by that point, it was something of a shock to his system to be in a place that offered high definition displays even in the bathroom. The quarters he was given were no bigger than a studio apartment, but he could tell that everything from the queen-sized bed to the little refrigerator in the kitchenette were of a fine quality. He was almost uncomfortable with it, as he was no longer used to such things. Still, he could certainly make do, and would for the night. After a long shower—with water pressure that nearly made him cry, it was so good—and changing into slacks and a button-up shirt, he patiently carved away at his beard, practically needing a weed-whacker to do so (in Stark's estimation, to which he merely chuckled). Left with nothing but a few toilet paper squares to absorb the nicks he'd given himself, he soon enough was bustled into a chair grabbed from the small desk in the corner. His friend had returned with an agent, a woman in her mid-thirties with honey-colored hair and green eyes, who had been deputized to "trim the verge" bursting off of his head. He endured it all in silence, lengthened curls dropping away as she snipped and cut, returning him to something of his former self. Physically, at least.

As promised, the team was set to have a communal dinner, a practice from the early days that Bruce was grateful for. Even if the majority of the team housed new members, he was still welcomed to the table with cheer and enthusiasm (much of it polite enthusiasm, and not a little wonderment at his presence). Having Stark, Thor, and Rogers at hand helped, but he was able to meet with the others well enough. Over pasta primavera and garlic knots, he reacquainted himself with the Vision and Sam Wilson, Wanda waving to him from down the table. Another agent was there as well, her bright blue hair shorn into a pixie cut and her nearly-black eyes appraising him knowingly. He contented himself with the present company, learning of the roster changes, and of the team across the pond. Wanda's brother was a veritable second-in-command over there, under a fellow named Chapman. Across the world, with the United Nations' support, they retained their autonomy and had stumbled upon the good fortune of being backed by them. He knew he was being given the short form of what had happened after he'd gone, particularly when Stark gritted his teeth and mentioned the ex-general Ross attempting to horn his way in on multiple occasions. (That, he knew well enough. No matter how far he roamed, Banner always kept tabs and a sharp eye out for the man, understanding he would like nothing better than to catch him and lock him up, despite the immunity he evidently possessed even as an inactive Avenger.) Hearing the warnings in their voices, spying the truth of it in the newly-minted commander's face, he accepted it all with nods and assurances that they would not be around long enough to jeopardize anything. Filled in on the gist of what Thor wished to do with his aid, the others posited theories of their own about the Infinity Stones, the Vision providing an analytical commentary while Stark responded with sardonic comments. Talk eventually turned to more trivial matters, such as the cold and what he'd been up to over the past year and a half. Though he'd been answering his questions nominally to the group, he found that the single civilian, Steve's wife Holly, had been the most interested in his answers. It was good to see that the natural curiosity in her hadn't been knocked away just yet, and he could answer her easily enough.

Besides, Bruce was just as thorough in his own questions. Particularly when she'd come in with a baby on her hip. The little one's appearance stunned him a little, turning into happy surprise when Steve swept him up from his mother and giggled in tandem with the little guy before pecking his cheek. Clearly, he and his wife Holly had found the time between mission work and archive assignments to produce the child, his big blue eyes staring him down before giving a gummy smile when his father brought him over to meet him. Banner was pleased, chuckling a little when the baby reached out and grabbed at his glasses, brushing off his parents' concerns with a wave of the hand. The tiniest ache in his heart was present, as ever, but he had no qualms with little Grant. That tiny ache was compounded upon when he noticed the empty spots at the table, the lack of a certain redhead's presence sparking inquiries. Three of the party had not arrived yet, seeing as how they were en-route from a reconnaissance job, but they would be there soon enough.

They were all nearing the end of the meal when the door at the far end of the communal dining space opened, a new face appearing around the corner. Called Scott by his fellows, the other man nearly froze on the spot when he spotted him. Introducing himself carefully, he was taken aback when the fellow shook himself loose, eagerly clasping his hand and shaking it hard. Asking after his status on the team, he learned of his codename, and his abilities gifted to him through his powered suit. When Bruce discovered it had been due to Hank Pym's generosity and faith in him, he replied with a touch more enthusiasm. Banner had long admired Pym's work, and was as delighted to ask after the other doctor as the new fellow was delighted to answer him. In fact, were it not necessary to let the man get some dinner of his own, he would have altogether missed the arrival of the two remaining members.

But he didn't miss them. He didn't miss the redhead beauty rounding the corner, her face turned into profile to look at her companion. They stopped at the end of the hall, locked in serious discussion. Natasha Romanoff looked beautiful, as ever, and Bruce inhaled sharply against the drop in his stomach. Time and distance had dulled his feelings for her, but they had not vanished entirely. A part of him mused that it was unlikely that he would ever be rid of it, just like he would never be rid of the part of him that still belonged to Betty. Over the past few hours, he at turns dreaded and anticipated meeting with the ex-assassin again, hoping against hope that all that had come before could be worked past, that they could find a way to speak to one another again.

And then he looked at her companion. The tall, brunet fellow at her side sported a blunt cut, the hair parted to one side and tucked behind his ear as he listened to her. The seriousness of his countenance bled through him, even as his lips twisted in a wry smirk. What was more telling, though, was the set of his eyes. Even though he looked at least a decade younger than Bruce himself, his eyes said he'd seen much more. From his right, he heard Stark whispering to him about the guy. It was Bucky Barnes, Steve's friend from before the war. Through a fantastic twist and terrible mischance, he'd been taken captive by HYDRA, morphed into an assassin after enduring similar experimentation to his friend's. (The metal arm was another thing he'd come away with, something Bruce would not have noticed save for the glint of the light off his hand catching his eye.) Somehow, he'd survived the years, hunting and killing as a notorious shadow, only to be freed from his plight a few years ago. Since then, he'd been striving to clean up his act and his image, and had done enough to claim the mantle that Rogers had taken off. This was all said with a slightly bitter edge in the billionaire's voice, but Banner knew better than to force an explanation on that in their present company. Instead, he nodded absently, watching as the pair down the way continued to concentrate on one another. Natasha murmured something, and Barnes let his lips curl into a true smile, his head shaking a bit.

It would all seem friendly to his eyes, had they not had their hands linked together, and were they not so close to one another. Unwelcome realization ripped through him, and Bruce nearly choked on his water when she ran a finger down the other man's chest, her gaze undoubtedly darkening when the fellow's free hand cupped at her waist to pull her closer.

"What?" Stark asked him, spiking an eyebrow at his obvious befuddlement. The doctor's jaw quirked for a couple of moments before he found his voice again.

"She...and him?" Bruce intoned, the incredulity in his voice mounting with each passing second. Following his jerking thumb, Tony took in the pair at the far end of the table, understanding dawning in that second.

"Yeah. What's the old saying? Assassins of a feather Glock together?" Stark shrugged, the stretch he'd done for the mocking leaving something to be desired in his mind. "I dunno."

Bruce could not look away, a tick in his jaw twitching it as he watched the taller man reach out, twirling some strands of her fiery hair around his flesh finger. She batted it away, but amusement lined her face. Amusement, and something deeper. Elevating herself a little, she brushed a peck along the new captain's jaw, him smiling and threading their fingers together again before leading her away. As they disappeared through a door down the hall, Banner let out a slow breath, coming back to himself in that moment. Glancing over, he spotted the deep concern in his friend's irises, and he cleared his throat as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"I thought that when I left, she would...I had hoped she would be able to..." he trailed off, not sure how to finish the thought. When he'd left them all, when he'd disappeared without her, he'd done so with the intention of them moving onto better things. The brief overview of the history of the new captain given to him by his friend indicated that he was on as twisted and complicated a path as Banner, more so, even. His past was ringed with fire and ash, dripping with blood, despite the momentous efforts he'd put into righting all his wrongs. The broken, jagged pieces of his soul were on display for anyone to see. Natasha had to have known about them well before getting involved with the fellow. And yet, she decided to pursue it, anyway.

Bruce had proclaimed that their pieces wouldn't fit together, not for the long-term. But he couldn't see that it would be any better with the other man, and it soured his mood. For his part, Tony could see the disappointment in his gaze, and he let out a slow breath.

"Her choice," the tech genius retorted, a frown curling the corners of his mouth. Lifting a shoulder, he added, "Granted, definitely not my favorite of her choices, but it's hers. You had your chance, man, and in my expert opinion, you blew it big time."

Banner was as close to staring daggers at him as he'd ever been, though he merely tightened his jaw for a moment. Well, that, and he had a verbal answer as well.

"Thanks," he muttered sarcastically, pinching the bridge of his nose and pushing his glasses up.

"It's what I'm here for," Stark replied blithely, snatching up the passing bread basket and dumping a couple more garlic knots onto his plate. Spying the genuine sadness beneath the layer of stolidity in his friend's gaze, he cleared his throat. Pitching his voice lower, he continued, "And if you're still interested in my expert opinion...don't leave this unresolved. Not this time."

Pointedly, he looked in the direction Romanoff had gone, making sure there was no mistaking his intentions. Taking in a few deep breaths to calm himself, Banner looked down at his plate, his fork pushing the remnants of his food around as he mulled that over.

"Hmm," was his apt response, and the tech genius let it go after that point. The last of dinner was ingested, the dishes gathered and farewells passed as the commander left with his family. (They had a dog to get home to and take care of, a _dog_. The domesticity juxtaposed against the reality of the commander's work boggled even Bruce's mind, and he gave them baffled good-byes.) The others parted ways, absconding to the lounge area across the way. Instead of joining with them all at a bank of couches near the windowed walls, Bruce chose to take himself over to a sheltered alcove, citing the need to collecting himself. After all, he teased, it'd been awhile since he'd talked so much to others, and he needed to take a breather. The excuse was accepted, and the others let him go with grace. Tucking himself onto the bench of a well-padded seat, he lost himself in thought, musing about the rapidity of his choices over the last two days and how he was going to cope with it all. More was coming, more fantastical and unquantifiable things according to his alien friend. He had to remain calm, had to find his center and deal with it as best he could. His coping mechanisms were rusty, but he would need to find a way, and fast.

It was hard, though, to find that center when a familiar, melodious voice cut into his musings. However, it was no dream that had stirred him that time; it was the real deal, all deep confidence and stark bravado coming out of her and enfolding him.

"Doctor Banner. Good to see you all in one piece."

Bruce slowly looked up from his knees, bracing himself as he met Natasha Romanoff's eyes for the first time in over a year and a half. Just as she had been earlier, she was as beautiful as ever, but the hard edge of her had appeared, and he barely restrained a despondent sigh.

"Nat...Ms. Romanoff," he corrected himself, reminding himself of the time that had past since their last meeting. The terms they'd parted on dictated that nothing beyond formalities would be available to either of them, and he would respect that. Rising from his seat, his minor step forward cause her to shift back almost imperceptibly. Still, she would not beat a hasty retreat; that wasn't quite her style, in instances like that. A few seconds passed, the distant chatter of the teammates still in the lounge filling in the space.

"So, looks like Thor managed to pin you down. Said he thinks you'll be able to figure out a few things regarding the stones," she said soon enough, keeping her tone intentionally light and airy. Banner glanced around, spotting the god seated in the lounge area, his hammer resting on a coffee table as Wanda raised her palms out in an attempt to use her powers to lift it. Glancing at his watch, he concluded that there had been enough time for the ex-agent to have definitely wriggled out information from the bigger blond fellow, if not from anybody else.

"That's the hope."

"Hope is really all you can do right now," she noted, a tremor of seriousness bleeding into her words. Dipping her chin, she prepared to leave him then, pivoting on her heel and taking a few steps away from him. A lurch of nerves cut into him, and he could not stop himself from calling out to her.

"Natasha."

At once, she stopped, glancing over her shoulder at him. Coldness invaded her irises, and her eyebrow rose minutely. "What?"

"We should...we should talk," he replied, the excuse to keep her there sounding lame even to his ears. And she let him know it when she rolled her eyes. However, his words had the desired effect of bringing her back, her footfalls light as she returned to the alcove.

"About what, Bruce? We already did this, once. And once was enough," she declared, her tone even as she spoke. However, he wasn't concentrating on her voice. He was looking into her eyes, the flash of pain buried deep resurfacing for the briefest of instances. Breathing a sigh out his nose, Bruce looked down at his shoes, struggling to keep his composure.

"I just...want to be civil. I know that I, I hurt you. Even if you'll never admit it, and I'll never allude to it after this," he promised, preempting any denial on her part with a wave of his hand. Dark eyes met bright fully, his well of courage drawn on as he forced himself to face the music. "But I do know that it's true. Because I hurt myself as well."

A flinch passed over his features at his words, and Bruce scrubbed a hand over his brow. Natasha hadn't been the only one to walk away with deep wounds, with scars to the heart. It was of his making, yes, but his own wants and wishes had made it impossible for him to leave her unscathed. Still, he met her gaze again, steeling himself to go on.

"I, I still stand by what I said, though. Our pieces don't fit in that way," he proclaimed. Once, they might have had the chance to make it work, but he'd denied and gave it up long ago. The edges had changed, warping so that even the ones that slotted together before could no longer do so. Biting the bullet, he went on to make his final offer. "But maybe they can fit into something close to friendship? Or even just allies? I don't want to leave without...without setting things to rights."

A long minute passed in which they looked at one another, her eyes contracting ever-so-slightly as she mulled over his proposition.

"Friendship...I don't know," she murmured after collecting her thoughts, and Bruce felt his shoulders droop. He really had screwed it up, he mused morosely. Just like with Betty, just like with every important relationship he had in his life...before he could be sucked further into a downward spiral, his attention was called back when the redhead flicked her fiery hair over her shoulder, the hard lines in her face softening the tiniest fraction. "But we are Avengers, Bruce. Allies is something I can do."

"Allies, then."

With a final nod, Natasha's ocean-colored gaze slid over him one last time, her hand coming out and landing featherlight on his shoulder. Two careful taps, and she spun away, leaving him in his alcove, the peace around him settling again. His heart thumped in his chest, though he was careful to not give it too much leeway. Counting down in his head, he waited until he passed the full minute mark before stepping out of the alcove. Carefully he picked his way across the floor, his gaze narrowing upon the presence leaning against the far pillar. Approaching the taller man, Bruce refused to let himself be intimidated by the fellow. Rather, as he came closer, he engaged him directly.

"Barnes," he said by way of greeting. The other man barely quirked an eyebrow, his thumbs hooking in the pockets of his jeans as he stepped forward.

"Banner," he responded, inclining his head almost respectfully. No doubt he'd heard a great deal about him, about the truth of him, from the others if not Natasha. After all, Barnes had rescued him after the crash of the quinjet in Sokovia; he was bound to have questions about a guy who turned into a great, green monster seemingly at will. And his history with all of them would have been divulged at some point, particularly the unresolved admiration that had once stood between him and the woman the other man had taken up with. That knowledge seemed to flit over his face as he scanned the smaller man, a single blink breaking it up before he tapped his free fingers along the pockets of his pants. Tipping his head in the direction Romanoff had gone, he murmured quietly, "If you're going to hit me with the 'don't hurt her' speech, you can save yourself the trouble. I'm well aware of what will happen if I ever lose my mind and do such a thing."

"Really." It wasn't a question, but Bruce was interested in the answer, anyway. Bucky shrugged, ready to oblige him.

"Yep. She'll destroy me so badly, she'll make me wish it were you doing it instead," he stated, and despite themselves, they both shared a chuckle at that. When the levity dropped away, Barnes met his eye-line, dipping his chin. "I know my girl, Doctor Banner."

The final, dying burst of flame in the doctor's chest flickered at the endearment the other man gave to the woman he'd let go, and he sighed.

"I suppose you do. But still..." he said, the point trailing away as he looked up again, holding it as the taller man inhaled sharply. There wasn't much he could do to right the wrong he'd inflicted upon her, but he could at least make sure that it would not happen again. Natasha deserved that much. Bucky's face became flat and cold, his throat cleared after a couple of seconds.

"Again, I know." Cornflower blue eyes narrowed in on him as his arms crossed over his chest. "Believe me, I do."

The two men stared at one another silently for several long moments, all that was left unsaid hovering between them. Eventually, Barnes dipped his chin in a nod, waiting only Banner to return it before he walked away, the tread of his booted feet across the floor barely making a sound as he went. Exhaling softly, Bruce reckoned that was the best he would get for the night, adjourning to his quarters for a fitful rest.

At dawn the following day, the circle of people bidding him and the god farewell was small, at best. Due to a recon mission having called away a good majority of the team, it really fell to the Vision, Tony, and Steve to see them off (the final of the trio having left at an ungodly hour, according to his wife when he'd accidentally woken her on his way out of the house). The android shared a few private words with Thor, fellow bearers of Mjolnir discussing what could happen should things start to go pear-shaped in the outer cosmos. Downloading new information for the database, the brunet man mused in good humor as he swiped at his curls. The air around the base was still and quiet, the chilling wind and snow muffling their actions as they all walked into the open field beyond its walls. Once at a safe distance, they all paused, looks of concern and commiseration passing among them. Those in coats huddled deeper into them, and those without bore up well enough as the seconds ticked by, farewells heavy in their hearts.

"Well, here ya go," Tony said eventually, handing him a sturdy traveling case he'd assembled, one equipped with some specialty tools he'd been tinkering with over the last few months. If they survived the trip through time and space, he wanted them to be put to good use, trackers and such to aid in their work. When Banner merely grinned and accepted it, Stark stepped up to give him a hug farewell. Pulling back almost as fast as he went in, he huffed out a short breath, letting his frowning lips twist into a sad smirk. "Good luck, Bruce. Bring yourself back safely. And a souvenir. I swear, every time the jolly blond giant goes home, he never brings anything back to share."

They all shared humorless grins at that. Given what happened the last time Stark and Banner had appropriated a piece of alien technology, it hadn't work out. For their research or the planet. Bruce could well imagine that Thor was leery, at best, about bringing them anything of that nature, even with the claims of companionship and friendship he made to all of them.

"I'll see what I can do," the doctor said, canting his head as he inwardly resolved to at least give the suggestion one more go. Wordlessly, Stark stepped closer, drawing him in for a fast hug farewell. Two sharps raps were exchanged on both their backs as Bruce reciprocated, sighs floating out as they stepped away from each other. Nodding once, he murmured, "Thanks again, Tony."

The billionaire quirked his jaw, but said no more. In his place came the commander, his concern bright as he approached.

"Good luck. Both of you," Steve told his friends, handshakes and two-rapped hugs exchanged. In his eyes was the glint of hope, of a conclusion to everything they'd worked towards—mostly unknowingly—for nearly five years coming to fruition. It reflected back at him in Bruce's eyes, and the doctor dipped his chin. A hand clapped on his shoulder, drawing him away from the others who remained to see them off.

"Are you ready, my friend?" Thor inquired, twitching his hammer in his hand a little. Sensing it would be best not to prolong the good-byes, Bruce felt his nerves jump from his stomach up his throat for a moment, swallowing them down as harshly as he could.

"As much as I can be, I suppose," he said, gingerly padding nearer to the god. Around Thor's waist was a specially-designed harness, designed to withstand force and trauma enough to allow him to bear another person away from the planet. Taking up the empty end, Banner clipped it around his waist at several points, and the god exhaled softly.

"Very well. Let's hope for a swift conclusion to all this," he said, the others nodding their agreement with his words. A final tightening, and the harness was secure around both of them.

"Fingers crossed," Bruce said, a final, bittersweet grin directed at his teammates and friends before picking up the case again. Thor, after inclining his head once more, gripped the back of his coat out of habit, Mjolnir raised high and proud. His crimson cape billowed floating in the crackling air, the overcast sky swirling and spitting as great beams of light encompassed them. In a flash and churn of melted ice, they were gone, and with them went the hope for the future, for answers sorely needed.

* * *

 **A/N:** ...See? More Avenger stuff. Thor bringing back Bruce has been waiting in the wings for awhile, just had to find the right time to do it. This will probably clash terribly with canon, but hey, I think we departed from that awhile ago, and if you're still around, awesome. :) For reference, this chapter's actions all take place from January 2nd to roughly January 7th. Just so nobody is too lost.

Yes, the Rogers family has a dog now. I know, they are sickeningly domestic, aren't they? But hey, think of it this way—his family is the only touch of normal in Steve's life that he's had in ages. Personally, I think if he had a shot, he'd be all for it. And I know there will be some people who will think the choice of a corgi would be wrong for Steve and his family, were he to get a dog. However, I disagree; personality-wise, I find that corgis match better with him than others, and I think he would gravitate towards it, given the chance to do some research.

And if I have to read. One more. Fanfiction. With a. Freakin' Golden Retriever or Lab as the choice...I will lose my mind. Nothing against those breeds, but dear Lord, people, there are other dogs out there. Seriously. It's them, or Siberian Huskies, that are nearly always chosen, and it's annoying to me now (and I grew up with Siberian Huskies, too; I know how awesome/energetic they are)!

Next chapter will touch on a particular OC's birthday, as well as some other things. Stayed tuned for that.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, Frozen, etc.). Don't forget to add me on Twitter: PhanProTweets.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	16. Chapter 16

"Who is all going out again?" Steve piped up from his seat on the couch, barely glancing up from the book in hand. That Saturday morning in January was relatively calm, the inhabitants of the slate blue house relishing the peace. The commander had seen off a few of the team members on a scouting mission the night previously, the remaining few on-call in case things went sour. Fury had called in, giving his report on the helicarrier crew and discussing the necessity of another rotation of base agents to take their place with him. He'd come home the night before, eternally relieved to be done for the day. Holly, having just come off an archival project involving transcribing hand-written statistics of recruits back in the fifties, felt much the same way, nearly falling asleep on the floor when she was playing with Grant before his bedtime.

That morning, though, she seemed well. Well enough to go through with the plans she'd made with her friend earlier in the week. She chanced a glance at him as she gathered up her things, eyebrows quirking close to one another. She was fairly certain she'd told him what the plan for the day was, at least a couple of times, and she had trouble believing he needed the reminder. Not with his steel-trap mind and his penchant for worrying about her being without protection in public. The nonchalance he affected at that moment was very much that; an affectation.

Still, she had yet to actually pinpoint the source of his veneer of calm, and she was not about to rock the boat.

"Just me and Kay. For some sort of spa day, which she strong-armed me into, as a late birthday thing," she told him again, shrugging a shoulder before bending down and tying her sneaker. Her birthday had been that Thursday, but in between work, keeping an eye on the baby and dog, and fielding a call from her literary agent (more and more numbers for her novel were rolling in, and it all looked very promising for the future), it hadn't been possible to do more than dinner and a small cake that had been brought in from the cafeteria at the base. Kay had swooped in, begging her to come along for the day on Saturday, and Steve promised her something better than what she received the day of, but she shook it off. It wasn't necessary, she'd told him, to have anything huge done for her. She'd turned twenty-nine; it was hardly a milestone year.

Steve nodded, finally looking up from his book and spiking an eyebrow at her quizzical expression.

"Yeah, because you'd pass up that opportunity otherwise," he retorted sardonically, earning himself an ill-concealed eye-roll and a smirk. Gathering up her purse and her coat, Holly shrugged all on before pressing a kiss on their son's cheek as he lay in his playpen a few feet away, and a firm peck on Steve's lips followed. Out the back door she went, and Steve stiffened in his seat, his bright gaze focusing on a distant point as he concentrated his hearing. The rumble of her car's engine reverberated as it started up, the idle of it as she let it warm up for a few minutes making him modulate his breathing. Soon enough, the grind and crunch of snow under the tires resounded, and through the front window of the living room he watched as her Buick disappeared down the track.

After a few seconds of quiet, the tick of the heating pumping in warm air through vents practically echoing in the space, he shot up from his seat, resoluteness firming his features as he let his book drop onto the cushion.

"Alright, little man. We gotta work fast, okay? We only have a couple of hours while Mommy's gone to finish. You up for it?" he asked the baby, scooping him out of his playpen. For his part, Grant waved a fist, a funny little 'gah' popping out of his mouth, and he snickered at him. "Good to hear, son."

Bringing the little man down into the basement, along with a few blankets and his stuffed sheep for his tummy time in between set up and tear down, he prepared to get down to business. With the baby situated on the blankets, little arms and legs kicking as he reached for his sheep, the older man was quick to duck into the storage area just beyond the laundry room. On and off, for the past couple of times when Holly was last to the house or running errands, he'd been chiseling away at a special project: a piece of art work made from prints of their son's hands and feet. He'd read of a similar project online for children to do for special gifts, and he decided to modify one for their son to do. The outer edges of a heart were made of footprints, and his hands filled the space inside, multiple colors littering it. It wasn't perfect, by any means, but he knew his wife would absolutely treasure it.

The painting was very close to completion, with just a little bit of the space left inside the heart to do, as well as giving the corners a little color. Bringing out the canvas and the child-friendly paint tubes, Steve spread another cloth on the ground, the folded drop cloth there to catch errant spills in case the baby proved to be extra wiggly that day. Having also snatched up a couple of empty cereal boxes, he ripped them along the edges and turned the unprinted insides up. Blobs of paint were dropped onto the impromptu palettes, and he rolled back his sleeves along with his son's. Each color was delved into, tiny hands guided through the paint and then pressed into the canvas, Steve's strong grip keeping his son in place. One by one the small hand prints filled the rest of the white space, the heart filled slowly.

"Good job, kiddo. You're doing great," he praised Grant, his much larger thumb rubbing against the baby's wrist as he flattened out his palm, the tiny ridges of his hand left behind. Just as pleased, the baby hummed, finger heading towards his face as soon as his father let his hand go, ready to grab another color. Just as the fingertips brushed his chin, Steve snatched Grant's hand, tutting under his breath. It wasn't the first time he'd tried to eat his hand, and consequently the paint on it, so the older man wasn't terribly fazed by the action anymore. Offhandedly, he muttered, "No, no, don't put your hands in your mouth, that's yucky."

A bark resounded from the steps just as the last print was made, and Steve blew a sigh out his nose. He knew it would only be a matter of time before Bonnie found her way to them. She'd been napping in her little bed in its alcove upstairs, and thus had given them some peace, but now she was up. And, by the way she was bobbing around and tripping down the stairs, she was ready to play. Pitching his voice a little higher, Steve enticed the small animal to check out the far corners, pointing at each one to signal where to go. Distraction in place, he moved fast to scrub the paint on his son's hands off, the baby wipes he'd brought down with him chipping away at the stuff little by little. However, the inquisitive little dog would not be deterred for long, and she bounded over to her master, nails clicking on the tile as she went. Nosing at the tubes by his legs, she sniffed at the edge of the cardboard palette, a gleam coming into her dark eyes that her owner recognized all too quickly.

"No. Don't eat the paint, Bonnie," Steve chided the small dog, raising his voice enough to call attention away from the paints in question. Finished with cleaning his son's hands, he placed the baby on the blankets again, the little guy wiggling on his tummy as his father got up. Patting his knees, he spoke directly to Bonnie again, bidding her to come. As she did so, she padded after him up the stairs, though she paused as she seemed to realize what he was trying to do. Opening the door to the upstairs, the blond man flapped a hand at the opened crack, reaching down and giving the little dog's bottom a few gentle pats. "Go on. Living room, go."

With almost a huff, the corgi started to waddle up the last few stairs, trotting into the living room and towards her toy basket with alacrity. Satisfied that she would be occupied for the time being, Steve shook his head and shut the door, determined to get downstairs and set the remainder of the space to rights in the little time left to him. Rounding the corner and treading to the bottom stair, he froze, entranced by the sight before him.

His son, his little baby boy, was up on hands and knees. Big blue eyes looked down and up as he propelled himself forward, a wide expression of wonderment on his little face.

Grant was crawling. Crawling, at nearly six months old.

"Grant...oh, my gosh," Steve breathed, at once dropping down onto his knees to be on a level with his son. Spotting his daddy, the baby started to turn toward him. Quick to encourage him, Steve nodded vigorously, holding out his arms to Grant. "Come on, come on!"

It was slow-going, and he dropped onto his chin more than once, but soon enough Grant got enough momentum going to crawl over to his father. He ended up grazing the corner of the canvas they'd been working on, smearing a big blotch of red onto one hand and knee, but at that moment, neither Steve nor the little guy cared. With a big, gummy smile, the baby finally got within a few feet of the bigger man, allowing him to scoop him up and cradle him close. Absolute joy and pride radiated through Steve, with him patting his son's back and standing up, pecking him on his cheek.

"That's my boy!" he whooped, tickling the baby's belly and coaxing pleased giggles from him as well. Quickly, he fetched up a couple of baby wipes, cleaning off the smear that had gotten on the child's hand before relegating him back to his playpen upstairs. Clearing away the impromptu palette, he took the drop cloth and the paint tubes back into the storage area, the canvas itself propped onto his easel. Carefully, he scooted it this way and that, making it fall as close to dead center as he possibly could. With the canvas ready and drying, he gathered up the abandoned blankets and the sheep, the toy returned to his boy when he went back up to the ground floor.

The minutes bled into one another as he continued to rush around the house, setting things to rights and brushing down the furniture as best he could (Bonnie was a sweet dog, but good Lord, could she shed). Electing to give Grant a bath and remove any traces of paint that could be left on him, he in turn received his fair share of water. Bubbles were flung into his face as the baby giggled, water soaking through his shirt and even his jeans as the little guy wiggled and flapped his arms in the tub. Under his breath, he muttered about needing to change as he wrestled the boy into a clean diaper, narrowly avoid a disaster of the bodily function variety as he did so. The phone in his pocket chirped, an alert forwarded through JJ just as he wrestled Grant into a clean onesie, the patterned frogs on it seemingly hopping as the little guy squirmed. Placing him in his crib for the time being, Steve fired off a return message as he booked it down the hall to the master bedroom. Jeans and shirt were shucked for dry ones, a hand barely raked through his hair to make it lie right as Bonnie came bolting into the room. She twisted and turned at his feet, small yips beckoning him to follow as she rocketed to the front. As she scratched at it, he groaned in understanding.

He had the corgi on her extendable leash and harness when the blue Camry began to roll up the driveway, access permission granted swiftly with shaking, cold fingers as he waited for the little dog to finish her business. Pocketing the device and raising his free hand in a greeting, he chuckled under his breath when the horn was honked at him, the sound cutting through the close, quiet air amidst the trees. It was followed by excited barks, Bonnie bounding through the thick snow and taking the lead all the way to the end in an effort to run after the newcomers. They continued on, parking around the back of the garage so that the vehicle would be hidden from sight. Assessing that her business had, indeed, been taken care of, Steve took Bonnie back inside, stomping off his boots just outside the door. The corgi gave a massive shake to rid herself of the excess snow, and once in the warmth of the house, she jittered and wiggled as her master took the spare towel from the hall closet and wiped her down. Knocks came at the back door, and the little dog shot away again, skittering over the floorboards and into the kitchen. Managing to shuck his coat and toe off his boots, the commander gave override commands to the security system, the locks on the back door clicking open and allowing the visitors to bustle in.

"Hey Sarah, Aaron," he greeted the couple, smiling as they gave him hellos in return. He'd not seen either of them in person since their wedding in August, but he knew Holly had kept in touch with her best friend frequently. As well as that, he too had reached out, as was evidenced by their presence there. He had promised Holly to not have a massive celebration for her birthday, but he wanted to make it special in some way. Inviting those two out would certainly do that. Extending a hand, he waited as the fellow filled it with his own and shook it. "You find the place alright?"

Aaron nodded, the blunted ends of his light hair bobbing as he did so. "Pretty simple, once the guiding system kicked in."

"JJ is pretty useful," Steve riposted, glad the installation of the UI to their devices had gone smoothly enough. It had allowed them access to the grid upstate, and also shielded them internally from anybody who could try to follow them to the commander's house. Evidently, it had worked out well.

"Thank you, sir," the UI responded almost genially. He rarely spoke out to the family unless otherwise prompted, but it seemed he was willing to assert his presence then. As Aaron and Sarah reacted with gasps and eyes ricocheting around the kitchen, it spoke up again. "I am rather advanced in comparison to the typical Garmin."

Nonplussed at the response, Steve blinked and shook his head.

"Right," he mumbled, shifting the baby in his arms and focusing back on the newcomers. Glancing at the watch perched on his wrist, he muttered, "Anyway, Holl should be back in about an hour, and—"

"And holy crap, you still have stuff to do to set up," Sarah finished for him, a knowing glint in her eyes. Steve smiled sheepishly, shrugging a shoulder. The smaller woman raised a hand, brushing away the concerns in the air between them. "Say no more; gotcha covered."

"Just tell us where to throw the bags and what needs doing," Aaron concurred, prompting the man of the house to do just that. With their bags and winter gear stashed in the downstairs bedroom, the pair swiftly went about the task of getting the house ready for Holly's return. It wasn't a lot, not as much as he felt she deserved, but among the three of them, they got the place spruced up; he and Aaron put in streamers around the tops of the walls, with Sarah blowing up and tying off balloons as she went. Some specialty plates and a cardboard/decorative paper centerpiece capped the table. From the Camry came a properly-sized sheet cake, something they'd picked up the night before as they left Annapolis (they'd spent the evening prior at a hotel in Albany, the agreed-upon hour to arrive set in advance). Taping up and preparing the last odds and ends, the grind of tires reached their ears, Holly's returned heralded. Shooing the couple into the living room to conceal themselves, Steve took point in the kitchen, leaning on the island as he waited for his wife to disarm the outside locks and come in.

The look on Holly's face was priceless when she noticed the efforts made in the kitchen.

He'd have to remember to send Kay a thank-you note for making this possible. (She'd been an integral part of the ploy, bringing Holly away from the house with the spa day idea. When asked to attend the little party as well, she'd declined, only because she was due out on a flight to help coordinate efforts with Pepper Potts' R.E.S.C.U.E. team. A piece of cake would definitely suffice as partial payment, she'd told him, and she'd laughed.)

"What's all this?" she gasped, wide brown eyes taking in the crepe paper streamers and the couple of balloons attached to the arch leading out of the kitchen. A hand came up to cover her gaping mouth (the light blue of her manicured nails catching the light), and her eyebrows nearly hit her hairline.

"Happy birthday, honey," her husband intoned as he stepped toward her, curling his arms around her and gathering her into a hug. He felt the giggles in her chest shake against him, as well her head canting as her face pressed into his shoulder. When she pulled back and gave him a pleased, yet questioning, look, he supplied, "You said you didn't want anything big, but I wasn't gonna let it go by uncelebrated."

Holly opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off by the lighter voice coming from the arch.

"How could he not? I mean, you've only got one more year until thirty."

Steve had to stifle a chuckle; no, Holly's face when she realized her erstwhile best friend was there, in her house, _that_ was truly priceless. Particularly when the petite blonde's partner showed up behind her and waved happily.

"Sarah, Aaron?" she cried, arms automatically opening to her best friend and her husband. Both went into her embrace, rocking her a bit as they hugged her. Pure joy lit up her features when they pulled away, and Steve felt warmth flood through him at the sight of it. "Oh, my God!"

It was nothing big, as he'd promised, but it was something in her honor, with the friends she so rarely got to see. Just as he'd wanted for her. Dinner was relatively simple, chicken with garlic mashed potatoes and biscuits made from one of her mother's recipes (which he had to call and double-check on, and he felt absolutely no shame in receiving instructions from his mother-in-law to do so), and was had as soon as everything settled down. Conversation flowed, Holly insisting on Sarah talking about the progress with her dance students and Aaron's latest forays with Apple. No superheroes coming along with fake wedding destinations in mind, he'd reported, but he was on the fast track to promotion, it seemed, and Steve and Holly saluted him with their glasses—it was wine, some of the good stuff that Holly rarely partook of those days. Grant, who had been out for a nap, cried through the monitor, and Steve fetched him up after setting his dirty diaper to rights. Letting Holly have a few minutes alone with them, he slowly reassembled the little guy's clothes and smoothed down his hair before rejoining them all. Presents had been brought up from their bags, Sarah gifting her with a journal and pen set—as all serious authors needed, she'd joked, winking as her friend laughed and hugged her in thanks—and Aaron giving her a novelty t-shirt picked up on their honeymoon (something about a crab and loving the Outer Banks, but she'd folded it up too quickly for him to see it properly).

"I also got you a little something, but first you should see Grant's gift," Steve announced when she put the other gifts to the side, holding up the little guy and giving him a slight wiggle.

Holly's eyebrows inclined, and she scooped up the baby from his father's arms, pressing a kiss into his hair and grinning.

"Aw, you got me a present, too, baby boy? Well, I can't pass that up, can I?" she stated, holding him close and looking to her husband for an answer. Nodding, he led the way to the basement door, his wife close on his heels. Sarah and Aaron followed, having spotted the display on the easel before and wanting to see her reaction to it. All the way down, she chattered to the baby, speculating as to what a nearly six-month-old could have gotten for his mommy. Rounding the corner of the stairs, she stopped before the easel, taking in the hand- and footprinted heart with eager eyes. A bead of water came into one eye, but she brushed it away so quickly that he wasn't sure it was even then. "Wow."

Steve couldn't help but grin at that. "It's still wet, but there was not a lot of time to get it done beforehand, so..."

"That's just fine. I love it," she declared, a smacking kiss planted first on the baby's cheek, and then on the father's. Scrutinizing the painting a little closer, she noticed the lopsided brush on the lower left corner. Pointing at it and circling over it in the air, she wondered, "What's this smear here?"

Noting the brush and upward arch of it, Steve smiled broadly, scratching the back of his neck.

"He, uh, crawled. He crawled over the canvas to me," he told her.

The brunette at his side gaped for a long moment, her head whipping to their son at an alarming rate. However, the probably whiplash she might have received was worth it in her mind as she looked upon the baby in her arms, brightness invading her face. Sarah crooned out congratulations, with Aaron hooking them all a thumbs-up at the new development.

"He did? Oh, sweetheart! Getting so big and crawling now..." she murmured, just as proud as Steve had been. She brought up the little guy to plant a smacking kiss on his cheek, the happiness at his efforts flooding through her. Well, until a thought dawned on her, and her smile dimmed a bit. "Oh, crap. We're gonna have to get the gates up."

"And move all the dangerous stuff out of his reach," Steve concurred, the thought having occurred to him as soon as the surprise and pleasure at his son's feat had worn off enough. At the rate the boy was going, he could very well be walking in a short while, and he already was very grabby. Better not to risk it after that day. Dipping his chin, he patted the small of his wife's back, affixing a sardonic grin to his lips.

"Happy birthday, Holl, your child's mobile," Aaron said, raising a hand as if in a mock toast. She snorted at that and shook her head.

"Thank you," she retorted sarcastically to her friend. Eyes flicked back to her husband, tracing along the lines of his jaw. Reaching out, she gently took his chin in hand, tilting his head slightly to the left. Clicking her tongue, she reported, "You still have paint on your face."

"Damn," he groaned, scratching at the curve of his jaw and watching a few flakes of blue fall away. Unsure of how he'd missed it in Grant's bath time onslaught, he merely canted his head and followed the others back upstairs, into the living room. Bonnie, by that point, decided she was done nuzzling and taking love from them, and trotted up to her bed, ready to sleep. Instead of going straight for a movie or television show to watch, Aaron had extracted the gaming system Holly had, electing to declare that a Mario Cart tourney was called for. Brushing off his wife's comments about the exact age of all of them, he got it all set up in record time, establishing that two players would race and someone would sub in for whoever lost the previous round. Easily agreed to, Sarah pushed the coffee table out of the way, delightedly sidling up to the record player and putting on some music before claiming the armchair. Steve, purposefully avoiding being in the first round, held onto Grant as Holly went toe to toe with Aaron, grumbling in good nature when she lost to him minutes later. Passing off the controller to Sarah, she plopped down beside her husband, nestling against him for a few moments while her friends debated which of the line-up of racers to pick from. As they debated, Steve held up a one-minute finger to his wife, putting the baby in his playpen before treading lightly up the stairs.

"This is from me," he told her when he returned from their bedroom, a small parcel in hand. Smiling, she took the wrapped box from him, tugging off the paper and opening it. Inside was a necklace, a thin chain attached to a cage-designed pendant.

"It's gorgeous," she whispered, taking it out and peering at it closely.

"They're all our birthstones, according to the saleswoman who helped me out," he replied, taking it from her hand and unclasping it. It had been a little difficult to finagle time in for it, but he was fortunate his wife's birthday was close to Christmas; he was able to fit it in with a private trip to the store. "A green garnet for you, and two rubies for us."

Looping it around her neck, he fastened it and watched as her fingers danced over the cage, staring at the little stones inside. Her thumb ran over the tiny hinge, and she glanced up at him again.

"It opens up, so you can add another when the time comes," he explained. Her brown eyes were boring into him then, and he realized what he'd said. Coughing, he sputtered, "Uh, I mean _if_. If—"

The attempts at correcting his perceived blunder were cut off by a firm kiss, her palms cupping his cheeks and thumbs smoothing over the skin as he sank into her embrace. At the back of his mind, he was entirely thankful that Sarah and Aaron were so thoroughly occupied with the game. When they broke apart, Holly grinned at him impishly, the tip of her nose bumping his.

"You were right the first time, honey," she breathed then, his rapid blinking met with a discreet wink. "When."

"When," he repeated, his trepidation melting fast, spreading warmth in his chest taking him over. As she nodded, pressing a fast peck to his lips, he relaxed into the cushions again. Clearing his throat, he chanced another furtive glance at her, eyebrow barely spiking. "When, exactly, do you think?"

The brunette woman beside him outright laughed, causing their friends to shoot her curious looks. Shaking her head, she flapped a hand back at the television screen, stating it was nothing and for them to continue with the game. Once they were thoroughly occupied again, she jerked her chin over to the playpen, Grant nestled peacefully inside and nursing his pacifier even in his sleep.

"Let's wait until he's a year old, then we'll discuss it," she told her husband, turning back and clucking in disappointment as her best friend banked too hard and hit a banana (to which he snorted; fun as it could be, the game would never make sense to Steve).

Six months, he mused to himself, before the subject could be fully broached again. He could certainly live with that.

"Fair enough," he remarked, patting her knee and giving her a knowing smirk just as Aaron crossed the finish line and Sarah groaned in defeat. With another pat dealt, he rose from his seat, taking the younger woman's place and assuming his turn at the racing game with a light heart.

 **xXxXxXx**

A few days later, precisely one day after Grant hit the six-month mark, the baby was scheduled for an appointment with the pediatrician. However, due to his parentage and the infamy of his father, bringing the little guy into the hospital in Saratoga Springs was nearly out of the question. As promised from the beginning, Helen Cho worked in conjunction with their doctors outside of the facility, and had managed to secure permissions for the pediatrician to enter and practice at the base. Working only a half day—with the promise of extra training to be done early the next morning—Steve had retrieved Grant early from daycare, watching after him in his office until Holly's shift was finished. (Not a few people stared after him when he'd walked the halls with the little one. Whispers and coos left in his wake as he passed with Grant strapped to his chest in a baby carrier, and he had to stifle his laughter at the people who openly gaped at the sight.) Less than fifteen minutes after she'd packed up for the day and left her department, the couple found themselves in the medical bay. Cho greeted them at the door, leading them to an exam room cordoned off for them, where they waited for the doctor to arrive. Shortly, the man appeared, murmuring apologies and cursing winter as he came into the room.

Doctor Boyden was a man of average height, dark hair slicked back and graying at the temples. Fine lines littered his face, evidence of his cheerful nature that poured out as soon as he entered the room. Setting his things to one side, he was quick to shrug on his lab coat and approached the family. Politely greeting the parents, his attention turned to the baby held by his mother, smiling wide and reaching out to take his little hands between his fingers.

"Ready for your sixth-month check-up, little man?" Boyden asked, his nearly-black eyes glittering in good humor as the baby stared up at him. Picking him up from his mother's arms and patting his back, he assured Grant, "Don't you worry; we'll be fast about it, okay?"

The flick of his gaze to the parents told them it was much for their benefit as the baby's and they could only dip their chins in nods. Helen Cho returned then, a cart at the ready and pushed into a corner while they went through the preliminary tests. Height and weight were measured, the baby a little long for his age being reported. The stethoscope around Boyden's neck came into play, Grant's heart and lungs listened to carefully and notated as healthy on the chart. Eyes and ears were checked, no inflammations or infections to be found, his mouth and head looked over and pronounced well. Throughout the examination of his body, both Boyden and Cho asked questions, wondering how he was sleeping, eating, if he was talking at least a little and how his motor skills were developing. Upon hearing that the little guy had taken up crawling already, the two shared a fast glance, something which did not escape Steve's notice. A prickle went up his spine as the two doctors appeared to have a wordless conversation, and he took Holly's hand in his, slotting their fingers together and bracing for the drop yet to come.

And come it did, when the baby was returned to Holly and the two doctors took seats on rolling stools.

"So, overall, how is he?" Holly asked, the baby in her lap gurgling and kicking his tiny feet. Boyden glanced over the notes he and Cho had taken, and he grinned.

"Developmentally, Grant's doing well. In fact, I'd say he's a bit ahead of the curve. Particularly with the modified strength tests. I'm sure you've noticed how fast he appears to be picking up on things: recognition, keeping focus, et cetera?" he said, eyebrows rising minutely. Steve glanced down at Holly, both of them nodding.

"We have. I assume that has to be because of the rewired genetics," he said, summarizing the state of his body and the changes that had passed onto the baby. Cho, recognizing it for what it was, inclined her head.

"Essentially, yes," she agreed. It's a bit different with Grant, though, given that he is only half of you."

Holly looked at her, smoothing out a wrinkle in Grant's little pants. "So instead of being four times greater in the metabolism department, he's only twice."

Cho hummed, and Boyden replied, "Yes. A little more susceptible to things than the commander, or so Doctor Cho thinks, but we project he will be above average as he grows."

The doctors shared yet another glance, and Steve found his teeth gritting. About to inquire just what they were thinking and not telling them, Helen pulled her stool closer. Her dark eyes took on a serious air, a loose tendril of her hair tucked out of the way as she began to speak.

"We have something to put forth to you both, regarding Grant and his development." Cho paused, Boyden nodding after a few moments and gesturing for her to go ahead. It was something they had discussed prior to the examination, something they had speculated about after the ones the male doctor had conducted in the past. Folding her hands in her lap, Cho took in a deep breath. "I know...I know it's not ideal for any parent to hear this, but we would like to continue to conduct tests with him as he gets older. Since he won't be the average child, there would need to be some measures taken so that he can be aided as he grows. Or, better yet, we can conduct the progress of his inherited abilities at certain intervals when he is older. Actually, that would be the better option, simply because we can't really test speed or strength while he's still so young."

Both man and woman's eyes had widened significantly, the brunette's in surprise and the blond's in shock. Shock, and a growing measure of distaste. Knowing something of Steve's history, beyond what physical aspects were reported, Cho had purported that the idea she would pose would be met with some skepticism. It looked like, as well as that, there would be a measure of hostility as well.

After all, on the surface, it could look like she and her fellow were proposing putting the little one through experimentation just for the sake of doing so. That was not the case. Premiere geneticist though she may be, she was not about to compromise the integrity of her patient, nor that of his parents. However, there was so much to learn about a person who had inherited, in part, the genes in which to become a nearly-perfect human male (not done through a drug trial, but naturally, which was fascinating).

Helen could not allow the chance to pass, nor could she allow the parents of the child in question to not be aware of the possibilities.

"Bear in mind, this is not an order, or anything of the sort," Boyden broke in then, able to see the shift in emotions for himself and recognizing when a parent was as close to the edge as a child was. His voice, purposefully even and betraying no desire to go one way or another, had enough of an effect on Steve so that he could rein in the flood of feeling that had overtaken him. Holly, in a similar state, looked at him, answering his spiked eyebrow with a small shake of the head. It was too soon to answer; they needed time to think about the proposal.

"Can we get back to you on that?" Steve asked, the uncertainty inside masked with stoicism. Assured that they could do so, Helen fetched up the baby and held him as Doctor Boyden readied the shots the little guy was to receive. The rotavirus vaccine went down easily enough (since that was given orally), but the combination shots to ward against polio and several other things had him actively screaming and crying. They were barely able to get the flu shot in him, so distressed was he, but soon enough Grant was passed back to his parents, his mommy cuddling him close and rocking him while his father remained utterly silent and stone-faced. Farewells were passed after that point, with the schedule reflecting the date in which Grant would need to come in for a nine-month appointment, and the couple returned to their vehicle in silence. Not a word was said as the baby was buckled into his seat, nor did Steve seem inclined to break the quiet as they climbed into the cab and fired up the engine. The truck sped away from the base, both parents mulling over what had been suggested. When they'd arrived home, they were greeted enthusiastically by Bonnie, but neither could muster more than wan smiles and ear scratches for the little dog. Settling into the evening routine, Holly was surprised to see him start the coffee maker, a fresh batch brewed as Steve poured food into the dog's bowl and laid a treat atop it, an apology to the small animal due to their lack of response earlier. Neither of them were very hungry, so the brunette went about assembling dinner for the baby first, her husband at the table with his coffee and serious concentration overtaking him as the minutes ticked by.

"What do you think, Holl?" Steve finally broached the topic, two-thirds of his coffee gone and his mind still whirling. Holly, in the chair near him and midway through feeding Grant a bottle of formula, bit her lip. Worrying it between her teeth for a few seconds, she exhaled softly, her dark gaze flicking up to meet his.

"I, I don't know. I mean, if we're choosing, I think...I think having him tested at intervals over the course of his life would be best," she told him, glancing down when the baby hummed and missing the aghast flicker rushing over her husband's face. Rocking the little guy a little, she cleared her throat and theorized, "He's so little now, and he can't really prove anything other than the fact that he can crawl and knows us when we come into a room."

The blond man blinked down at her, what she'd said not something he had anticipated.

"You'd want to do that?" Steve asked her, incredulous as to her answer. "Want them to...experiment with him?"

Holly shot him an almost disparaging look. "Steve, they're not suggesting experiments. They're suggesting measuring his abilities with the idea of how best to help him in the future."

She lifted a shoulder, staring at the little guy as he nursed his bottle in her arms.

"It's no less than what you've done, or what the team has done for placement," she pointed out, deliberately keeping her tone even. Her husband also looked at their boy, fingers coming and pinching the bridge of his nose soon after.

"We don't know that for sure. Helen I trust, but anyone else could get their hands on whatever they discover...could get their hands on _him_."

The last word made her wince, but Steve would not sugarcoat the situation. Not when the risks were as great as they were. The brunette sighed, a pained expression crossing her features for a moment as she took a deep breath.

"Sweetheart, I hate to be the one to say it, but we run that risk every day. We have since deciding to have him," Holly reminded him, her heart twisting as the words tumbled over her lips. It was true, though; though they rarely acknowledged it aloud, there was a risk that someone with enough determination and will could kidnap their baby. Grant, an innocent with no powers to draw on at that point in his life, could be taken from them simply by virtue of his parentage. However, they had not let that fear stop them from having him, and Holly refused to let that fear motivate her now. Narrowing her gaze slightly, she went on, "And who says I would just blindly give our boy to just anybody? That you would do that?"

Steve's icy eyes darted away, and he dipped his chin. "You wouldn't, and I wouldn't. So, it's not happening."

An exasperated groan ripped out of her mouth, and Holly veritably glared as her husband shot her an affronted glance. The matter still was not closed, apparently.

"No, I didn't say that. I'm saying that we reach an understanding with them so that the worst can be prevented from happening. At least, to prevent it from happening before we can be aware of it." Spying that he was ready to object, his mouth opening again, Holly swiftly cut him off. "Steve, Grant's my son, too. I wouldn't even think about it, if it wouldn't be of benefit to him in some way."

The truth of the statement washed over him, and Steve was fair enough to acknowledge it inwardly. However, he did not loosen his posture or even the set of his face on the outside, and he crossed his arms.

"I know," he ground out, a mulish set taking over his jaw. All that he was thinking, considering, pushed against his tongue and the back of his teeth, but he couldn't let it out. He wouldn't let it out. The whole situation smacked too much of the past, and all the things that could've been done to him might done to his boy instead. And he refused to let Grant be treated that way.

Holly, seeing the hard glare in his eye as he stared down at the grain in the table, inhaled sharply, and she struggled to keep her voice free of the frustration that was beating at the back of her mind when she spoke again.

"Look, you got the serum when you were in your twenties. How did you handle the changes? Really?"

Meeting her husband's eye, she was met with an expression that was supposed to be blank. However, it did not hide the frissons of pain and fear beneath it. She knew it had been a painful process, from his own lips, not only in the initial procedure but weeks and months afterward. He'd had to adjust to an entirely different lifestyle, just with being taller and broader than he had been his whole life. Everything else—the strength, the change in equilibrium, and more—had to be dealt with as it came, tested out and tried in between road stops. He was on his own after his adrenaline-fueled rush to get Erskine's killer, when the colonel brushed him aside and the senator granted him a chance. Inwardly. Steve could posit that perhaps, if he'd taken the offer to head to the mentioned base for testing, he would have figured out how to handle himself and his new body better, quicker, but he'd made his choice and lived through the consequences.

And that was a choice he didn't want to impose on his own son, no matter what good it could do for him. His jaw tightened again, something Holly noticed. Scooting her chair closer to him, her free hand curled around his wrist, kept loose so as to not make him feel caged in or held down.

"Grant already has them inside him, around half of them. And he has to grow up with them," she reasoned, the other arm cuddling her baby bringing him a mite closer. The trials that Steve had gone through were difficult enough to imagine, and he'd been an adult when the serum and Vita-rays were administered. Grant would be dealing with a portion of that throughout his childhood. While she had no doubt that he would be all the stronger for it, she knew that there was a possibility for hiccups down the road, things that they could not foresee and could not take for granted that they could be prepared for without aid. Soothing circles were rubbed against Steve's wrist, his body relaxing little by little at her touch. In a low voice, she continued, "We need to figure out how to help him with it and help him understand it. The doctors can help with that."

The clock on the wall ticked loudly as the seconds passed, Grant's little hums and coos breaking in intermittently. Slowly, Steve's eyes came away from the point in the middle distance he was staring at, his head inclining once and his fingers patting hers. Turning, he propelled himself out of his seat, pivoting towards the arch of the kitchen, his back straight and his gait even.

"Where are you going?" Holly couldn't help but call out.

"Got some calls to make," he told her, his voice clipped. Blinking, she was about to take offense to it when he paused in his flight, turning to face her again. The stony set of his countenance had returned, but there was a softness around his eyes, his hands tucking into his pockets to hide their fidgeting. Meeting her eye-line fully, he tipped his head towards the stairs, and he gentled his next words. "Come with me?"

It was a request, not a demand or a strong suggestion, and she could hear it in his voice. Swallowing, Holly rose from her chair, Grant clutching at her shirt as she went to her husband's side.

"Okay," she said, one hand looping along the crook of his elbow and allowing him to guide her through their home, up to the office to take care of another piece of business.

 **xXxXxXx**

It was with some apprehension that Helen Cho ventured to one of the upper floor conference rooms on the thirtieth, fitting the requested meeting between examining blood samples from the new recruits and catching up on her own reports. However, she was not about to reschedule it; she and Doctor Boyden had been asked to meet with the commander that day, around lunchtime, regarding what had been put forth at his son's examination. As he and his partner had needed time to discuss the matter, it was easily given, and it was just as easy to accede to a request made on his part. Telling her assistant to redirect her calls and take messages as required, she took the elevator up, her very nerves snapped as she went, the veneer of calm barely holding around her person. Catching Boyden just as he stepped out of another elevator, the pair briskly paced to the room at the end of the hall, the glass walls sliding by as they went. Through the door, she spotted the back of the larger, blond man, his head half-turning even before they entered the conference room.

Beside him, in place of his wife (who was swamped in a new project and unable to get away even on her lunch break) was a bespectacled man, thinning brown hair combed over and a sharp, blue suit wrapped around his person. Helen thought she recognized the guy as someone from the legal department, but she couldn't be sure. An attache case was on the table before him, and his watery eyes connected with Steve's as the doctors took seats across from them. For a long moment, nobody said a word, the mingling sounds of breathing and the heating system pumping through vents cutting through the air.

"Commander Rogers, you asked us to come here?" Helen said, breaking the uneasy quiet hovering around them all. Steve sat up straighter in his chair, folding his hands on the table and looking at her squarely.

"Yes. You asked my wife and me an important question a few days ago. If we agree to any examinations beyond the typical set...we will agree only if you sign this." At the spoken prompt, the suited man beside him opened his case and retrieved two packets of papers. Both doctors received a copy, and Helen spiked an eyebrow at the commander. Shrugging a shoulder, he told her, "It's our terms, as parents of the baby you wish to study."

Helen's eyebrows inclined, while her fellow stiffened in his seat. "Your terms."

Blue eyes slid to the right, and the lawyer cleared his throat, paging through his own copy of the contract that had been assembled.

"Yes, my client has stated there will be cooperation with you and the facility if you agree to the drawn-up terms. Among them are the following: all testing must be done here, and will only happen when either father or mother are present as well. If you take any blood or tissue samples, you have to destroy them immediately after testing. The child will not stay overnight and under no circumstances can any of the results be stored on an accessible database."

The list went on, things that were, by law, covered by HIPAA regulations, as well as a few things that were not allowed to be left to interpretation. The documents weren't as thick as some rental agreements that she'd signed to in the past, but Helen did note the amount of topics covered in. Cho had to admit that Rogers was nothing if not thorough, though she inwardly wished he did see such a step as necessary.

However, she supposed that he was not willing to risk anything. Not with his son on the line.

"Of course not, Commander," Boyden replied as soon as the lawyer had finished, almost flabbergasted at the offensive maneuver brought against them. He looked to his professional partner, and Cho nodded.

"Yes. There are confidentiality laws and clauses that—"

"With all due respect, Doctor Cho, we both know that laws and clauses can be abused if someone is determined," Steve pointed out, meeting her gaze squarely. "This is my son, and I will not allow him to become a sort of lab rat purely for your enjoyment. Or for personal gain."

He allowed a moment of silence for that to sink in, to let them know that he would not be led or fooled into letting his son be taken advantage of. It was a test, of sorts, for them; they could find data and use it for the betterment of the boy, but not for any form of notoriety to be given to them in the pursuit. No papers, no lectures, nothing beyond the treatment that they would give to an average civilian.

Hardness set into his irises, and he continued, "If you can't agree to this, or choose to void this in the future, we're done. And we will seek another pediatrician if you cannot, either, Doctor Boyden."

A look was darted to Cho's associate, who had taken on a stiff expression as well. He did not take well to having his integrity question, but he could inwardly concede that the commander had a point. Many doctors would have given anything for the chance to study and examine the little boy that was half a product of the super-soldier serum, and through any means necessary. The man had a right to protect his son, his family, from those kinds of people. And, he supposed, they hadn't known each other long enough for him to not be held under that same scrutiny.

A short silence sat among them all, the doctors poised on the edge as the commander and his lawyer awaited their answer. In the end, Helen could see no other option, reading the contract carefully as the minutes ticked by. Once she reached the final page, the one that required both hers and Boyden's signatures (Steve's and Holly's already affixed to the page; she had to wonder how much of the documents were the husband's fears and how much were the wife's) to solemnize the agreement.

It may have curtailed the public aspect that could be taken, but in the end, she recognized it for what it was: the protection of the little boy in question, and the fair treatment of him.

That, she could easily agree to.

A final look was darted to the father of the boy, the concern and love hovering in the back of his eyes as ever, and she sighed aloud.

"Give me a pen, I'll sign," she stated simply, holding out a hand. Out the corner of her eye, she could see Boyden nodding and mimicking her gesture.

"Same here."

Utensils were handed over and quickly each signed off on each other's copies. Once done, they were slid across the table to the lawyer, who scooped them up and exited the room. Notarized copies would be sent to them, he indicated, within a few days' time. Leaving the remaining three, Steve finally relaxed his steely facade, his shoulders slumping a little as his bright eyes softened.

"Helen, Doctor Boyden, you have to know, have to understand that this isn't—"

Boyden lifted a hand, flapping it and dispelling his concerns. Though a little miffed at the proceedings being sprung upon him with little warning, he would recover. All he wanted, he told the blond fellow, was aid Grant as he grew, for his own sake. Nodding at that, Steve shook the doctor's proffered hand before the older man departed, preparing himself for the long drive home for the second time in a week. Looking back at Helen, Rogers blinked at the small smile on her lips.

"I do understand, Steve," she told him, her tone absolutely honest. Standing up, she circled to his side of the table and laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it almost companionably. "Really."

Another squeeze, and her hand fell away, her throat clearing as she adopted her professional demeanor.

"So, when he's five, we'll do some specific assessments then," she said, Steve dipping his chin in agreement. The corner of her mouth curved, and her eyes narrowed mischievously as she continued, "And in the meantime, remember that your own physical is on the calendar for next Tuesday. You better be there."

Though he barely managed to stifle his groan, Helen did catch the discreet roll of his eyes, and she chuckled lightly when he shrugged.

"Okay, Doctor Cho," he replied, grins passed between them before she exited the room herself.

* * *

 **A/N:** Ah, birthdays and crawling babies, what's not to like about that? Also, wanted to get Sarah and Aaron around for the first time since their own marriage; I have missed them a bit. And that nice little hint of Holly wanting more little Rogers with her hubby in the future...hmm...

And yes, Steve definitely lawyered up in regards to future appointments with Grant. After all, it's highly unlikely that the quest for replicating the super-soldier serum has really been given up, and now that there is a second source, it is that much more imperative to protect his little boy. He's got the physical protection covered, with himself and those he considers family standing between any potential profiteers; now they just needed the legal line laid down. Also, please note that I am not in the profession of lawyer/of drawing up contracts, so it may not be totally accurate. I tried! (Please suspend your disbelief for a little…)

Time to level with you guys on this story—I intend to drop to a "one chapter per month" structure. Meaning, with the exception of the upcoming month of March in the story, which is already plotted out and I don't intend to change it, I plan on having only one chapter taking place each month. (July, 2017 may feature multiple chapters as well.) Why? Because...

...I have a fifth installment in my mind. Yes, a _fifth_. Which I'm sure a lot of you saw coming. Hey, I'm not going to hint at an Infinity War and not write about it. And because I have that in mind, I am eager to get started on it. This story has been, in my mind, sort of a mental break for me and my writing. Not that it degraded the value, I think, but it wasn't intended to be life-shattering or earth-shaking. It was always meant to be the story in which we all catch our breath and enjoy the relative calm before the storm.

What, you thought I gave you all this fluff thus far just for the sake of fluff?...Okay, I did, in part, but there was always something more on the horizon.

Consequently, I am beginning the prelims for that story, even as I write this (with as much research as I can being done, since the little I do know about Thanos makes me nervous, and I don't want you guys to revile what I'll write entirely), and I am getting antsy to get there. However, I have plotted out a good majority of this story's actions, and will, of course, finish it first. I just am preparing on doing it much quicker than originally planned.

I will still be posting weekly—give or take a few days, of course, depending on RL— just the content will not be twice monthly in the plot like it has (mostly) been. If any of this is still confusing, please let me know in a PM; I will try to clarify as best I can. We are definitely not done with this one yet, so you'll still have to hang tight, but I wanted you guys to know what the future held before much longer.

Also, I have completed my other story, _Four Seasons._ Please check it out, since it is all wrapped up! (And don't forget: I have a Twitter you can all follow so you don't miss any story updates by accident or site issues!)

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, Garmin, Nintendo, _Mario Kart_ , etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	17. Chapter 17

Bitter cold swept over the land, the arrival of February heralded by bursts of snow and ice. All warmth and heat bled away beyond the safe walls of homes and the base, and those whose resided there did their best to retain it. Particularly as the holiday that emphasized a special brand of warmth and heat was on its way. The reminders of it were everywhere; red hearts and creepy paper Cupids dotted walls and windows, brightening up the otherwise blank spaces inside the Avengers base. It was difficult to avoid, from the janitorial staff all the way up to the top brass.

One afternoon, the D.C. Dream Team (as Wilson dubbed them) had gathered for lunch in the private quarters, stationing themselves in one of the wide seating areas. Steve had needed a break from the reports he'd been catching up on since the end of January, and Natasha was not neck-deep in discussions with Fury and Coulson about agent placement for once. Grabbing a few comfy chairs and a coffee table, the trio took refuge in a far corner, the line of the glass wall opposite them revealing the frost on the panes and the bright glare of the sun over the snow-covered field beyond. As they settled, talking shop took up the first few minutes, discussions for equipment upgrades and training sessions giving way to plans they all were making for the upcoming holiday. St. Valentine's Day was the following week, on Tuesday, and thus approaching fast. As his girl was onsite for the weekend, Sam had the intention of wining and dining her at the base, intent on cooking her something himself. Wishing him luck in the endeavor, Romanoff turned to look at the commander, flapping a hand to extrapolate on his plans with Holly. Steve's face tinged red, his head ducking as he admitted that the pair of them did not have anything planned, save for picking up flowers for his wife and having dinner at home. Grant, naturally, would be with them, and that did not leave them much to work with. Once he was in bed, that would certainly open up options, but it was what they could do.

The redhead across from him quirked her jaw, swallowing the last of her low mein and arching an eyebrow.

"When's the last time you actually spent some time alone with your wife?" she asked him, curious as to the answer.

An unbidden smirk tugged at his lips, and he dropped his gaze down to his container of chicken and rice.

"Well..."

Wilson coughed loudly, interrupting him. "Quickies while the baby is asleep don't count, by the way."

Steve deflated, and shot Sam an annoyed look at that. "It's been awhile, then."

Natasha chuckled when the Falcon glanced at her, understanding blooming between them.

"Figured as much," she muttered, and before Steve could counter her words, she held up a hand. "Look, I booked a room for me and Bucky this weekend. It was to be for Friday night until Sunday, but well...you see how well that turned out."

She flapped a hand in the air, indicating the emptiness beside her and how Bucky would not be filling it for several days. The team in London was looking to actually conference, field leader to field leader, with Chapman intending on building a stronger rapport with Barnes. The fact that the current King of Wakanda also had some renegade smugglers and black market dealers trying to worm their way across the borders for vibranium compacted atop that, and so Bucky had left with the Vision and Wanda, none of them to get back for at least a week.

And because of that Natasha was out some time with her partner, and a good chunk of change to boot. She had to salvage it in some way, even if she had to give it away as a gift to someone else. At least then she could feel better about the situation, allowing the suite and a dinner reservation she'd made to go to someone who would appreciate it. Which, given the way the commander's eyes were widening significantly, she knew he could appreciate it.

"You two should take it. You'll just owe me one in the future."

Steve chewed the inside of his cheek, stopping himself from accepting outright. Excitement poured into him, but it was followed quickly by practicality. A flood of questions, concerns, cascaded to the forefront of his mind, ones that couldn't be put aside.

"That's kind of you, Nat," he began slowly, pushing his empty tray to one side. Tapping a finger against his knee, he shook his head, and mused aloud, "But who would we get to watch Grant? I mean, I would love to have some time away with Holly, but he's only about seven months old. And it's really last minute. There's also Bonnie to consider."

Sam looked up from his beef rigatoni, chewing for a moment, while Natasha shrugged a shoulder.

"Well, you could always call the caretaker; see if she'd be willing to have him. And one of us can swing by to feed and walk the little spud."

Amused as he was by his friend picking up on his wife's playful moniker for the corgi, his half-smile didn't last long.

"It would be tough. Especially on short notice," he murmured, focusing on a point over his teammate's head. "And overnight for two nights."

"Or you could ask Scott to take care of both," Sam pointed out then, gesturing at the bank of doors to the private apartments. Lang was around the base somewhere, but when on call, he generally stuck to the living quarters. Spearing another bite of food, Wilson continued, "He has a little girl; he's got experience. Plus, he seems to get a real kick out of kissing your butt."

Rogers wrinkled his nose. "Thanks for the lovely visual."

Natasha aired the final choice. "Last option is bringing them both here, and we could keep an eye on them in the apartments. But…"

Steve met the gazes of his friends, all of them sharing in various levels of discomfort. Truly, he knew his friends and teammates would not have much of an issue with the baby and the dog coming around for the weekend. However, there was the variable of them being on-call for emergency extraction for the others who were out. At least two of them had to be alert and ready, and to expose the little one to the frenzy and the tension of such a thing at his age was not ideal. It was definitely the bottom of the barrel, with rejection ultimately standing below that.

Given the way his bright gaze cut over to the apartment doors, it was clear which route Steve was truly considering.

Catching his glances, Sam chuckled under his breath and leaned back in his seat. "You do realize, if he agrees, you'll be giving Lang free access to your home while you're gone? The only person who can out fanboy him is Coulson."

Nat canted her head in agreement. "Who actually may be a viable option as well."

The older man was actually in the area, for once, his team utilizing the time to do some data examination. If needed, she had no doubt the secret director would be willing to make the trip to care for the progeny of the great American hero. The commander visibly winced at that, clearing his throat before rising from his seat.

"I don't think anyone can outdo Coulson in that department. And I'm gonna try with Scott, first," he pronounced carefully, turning away from the others and fetching his phone from his pocket to call his wife. Catching her on her own lunch break, they swiftly discussed the offer Natasha had made them. To hear her excitement, tempered as it was, made Steve's heart flutter, and he knew he had to try and make it work. They needed the time together, and he would be sure to get it for the both of them.

As it turned out, Scott was more than amenable to the idea. Even with the tight time-frame, he was willing watch Grant and Bonnie, citing that all he would need was food and WiFi to get through the quiet times for the weekend. Easily acceding to his request, the couple started prepping for the two days they would spend in Albany. That Friday, they'd packed prior to heading out for work, the day passing in a sort of haze as their minds were occupied elsewhere. Finally, the metaphorical last whistle blew, and the couple were among the first out of the base that evening, fetching up their son and Lang right behind them as they went back to the house to pick up everything.

"You sure this is alright, Scott?" Holly asked the older man, even as they were packing up the car to leave. The excitement she had felt beforehand was giving way to the nerves and the guilt at imposing upon the fellow. She knew how busy any member of the team could be, and the free time they had was precious. When he merely squinted at her curiously, she shrugged, "I mean, I don't want us going away to disrupt any plans you might have."

For his part, Scott waggled a few fingers in the air, waylaying her concern with a bright grin.

"Eh, my prospective SO is on the other end of the country. Skype is about the best I can hope for, and that won't last long," he stated bluntly, scratching the little dog's chin as she nestled into his lap. Sinking back into the cushions of the chair, he also mumbled, "At least this will keep me from OD-ing on chocolate and loneliness."

The brunette woman blinked rapidly at the admission. "Wow."

Lang cleared his throat, holding up a palm when he realized his jest had hit a little too close to the truth.

"Just kidding. I'm fine, and it's fine," he said, hastening to reassure the young mother before him. "Watching your little guy and the pup will be no problem."

Holly nodded, biting her lip. Her fingers twisted around the ends of her sleeves, the tell-tale sign of her agitation all the more apparent. Scott felt a pang inside for her, and for her husband. It would be the first time they both spent time away from the baby in a non-work related setting; it wouldn't be simple, leaving the little one behind. The memory of the first time he and his ex-wife had taken a trip without Cassie flooded his mind, the bittersweet parting that lingered despite the fun they had surfacing. It was one of the few times after her birth that they'd gotten along so well, and while it eventually went to pot, it still remained as one of the better memories. Though Steve himself was moving in and out of the house to pack up, he'd caught the long glances he'd given the playpen as he passed, to the baby within. Scott understood that all too well.

He was pulled out of his musings by the young woman across from him coughing once, forcibly stilling her fingers.

"Okay, I promised myself I would not do the smothering 'emergency-contacts-call-every-hour-with-updates' thing. But, I mean..." she trailed off, scrubbing a hand over the scar above her brow for a few seconds. Taking a deep breath, she hooked a thumb over her shoulder, towards the kitchen. "There's a few numbers on the fridge, if you need them . Which I know you don't."

"I got this," Scott replied, dipping his chin and snickering. "He can't be any worse than my Cassie was at his age."

"Wait until you're changing his diaper," the commander piped up as he came into the room, catching the tail end of the sentence and leaning against the back of the couch. Off Scott's quirking eyebrows, he snorted ruefully. "Kid's got aim, is all I'll say."

Holly gave her husband an unimpressed look. "Thank you, Steve, that's very helpful."

"Don't worry, I can do this," the brunet man cut in, his expression entirely serious in that moment. The sincerity in his form reminded them both that, while he tended to have an irreverent and pleasant demeanor, he truly understood the gravity of the situation. He understood the amount of trust the couple was putting into him watching their son and their home. Holding up two fingers in a solemn salute, he went on, "Promise this will be a very chill weekend. And if he wants to throw a party, hey, I'll make sure that the clean-up happens before you get back."

The attempt at levity in the end made Holly giggle a bit. Behind her, Steve smiled wanly, the hand he'd placed on her shoulder squeezing once before falling away.

"We appreciate that," she intoned then, glancing back to her husband and inclining her chin. Off her cue, he grabbed up her coat from where she'd left it—on the record player, with her purse on the floor—and handed it off to her. Getting up from the couch, she started to shrug it on, another look cast over to the playpen, where her little boy was sucking on his pacifier and bobbing his favorite lamb toy back and forth. After a few seconds, she cleared her throat and completed putting on her coat, as well as delivering a last set of instructions. "Um, just send us a text or something before you put him to bed, just to check in. And a call in the morning, please."

"Will do," Lang promised, giving her a wide smile. On that note, the young mother nodded, her husband moving to the playpen and fetching up the baby. Going to them, Holly was pulled into Steve's side, his arm curling around her as he supported Grant. Admonishing him to be a good boy for Scott, the bigger fellow blinked a few times before pecking his son's cheek. Holly reached up, taking the little guy and giving him kisses all over his cheeks, nuzzling his hair for a few moments before placing him back in his playpen. Over her head, Steve and Scott shared a long look, father to father, before the older man inclined his head. Slowly, the pair pivoted away from the baby, the wife grabbing up her purse and calling out to the dog in his lap. Bonnie sprang up, flopping to the floor with little grace and much enthusiasm. Her owners knelt down, giving her a share of pats and hugs, too, before pivoting and heading to the back door.

"Have fun," Scott called out once more, another round of farewells shouted back just before the door clicked shut. Letting out a slow breath, he sat up as the grind of tires made their way down the drive, disappearing in a few moments. Two nights with the baby and the corgi, he mused to himself. He could definitely do it. Pushing himself out of his chair, he decided the first thing that they could do, would be to have some dinner.

Despite all the squirming and wiggling, Grant really was no worse than his daughter had been at nearly seven months old. Sure, he seemed to take more delight in spitting up his food and giggling as Lang scraped it off his chin with the spoon, but he eventually allowed the older man to feed him, hand thumping hard against the high chair's tray. Scott happily did so, making airplane noises and laughing along when the boy grabbed at the spoon and flung a glob of mashed potatoes into his face. Cleaning them both up as best he could, he managed to grab a container of leftovers that Holly had marked for him to heat up. His food could be eaten while indulging in a show, and as he sneaked Bonnie a treat from the cupboard for not lapping up the potatoes on the floor, he heated it up.

Food prepared, baby cleaned and in his swivel-seat bouncer, the brunet man took to chucking a tennis ball for the little dog's enjoyment as he went through the movie selection the family offered. Bonnie's nails clicked as she approached, the green ball dropped by his knee, and he tossed it again, smiling broadly as he found two that he would definitely want to watch. Looking over his shoulders at the baby, his big blue eyes staring right back, Scott snickered, shuffling over to Grant on his knees.

"Okay, bud, help me out. Is it more of an _Indiana Jones_ or a _Ghostbusters_ night?" he asked the baby, holding up the two DVD cases. Late bloomer that the commander was, at least his wife was able to help guide him towards quality entertainment. Shaking them in front of the little guy's face, he chuckled when Grant actually furrowed his brow and stared at each one. Soon enough, the baby crowed loudly, flapping his hand and smacking the _Indiana Jones_ box with a snap. Putting the boxes down, Scott lifted up the little guy, holding him with one arm as he took the selection over to the player. To Grant, he murmured, "Can't go wrong with Indy, good choice."

Checking the clock on his phone, Scott reckoned there was definitely time to indulge in an adventure, and it was never too early to inundate the young one with superb cinematic taste. Gathering up the little guy, Lang plunked the pacifier in Grant's mouth, humming the theme as the opening jungle scene lit up the screen.

 **xXxXxXx**

The first several minutes of the drive to Albany, Steve caught himself glancing into the rearview mirror, the ingrained habit of looking out for his boy unable to be set aside. Out the corner of his eye, he noticed Holly started to reach back to the empty seat, only to snatch her hand back when she remembered it was just them in the car. A quiet sigh poured out his nose as the piano compilation played over the speakers. Silently, he lifted a hand off the wheel, taking his wife's hand in his and bringing it up to his lips. A small breath echoed out of her, and he pressed another buss to the skin, grinning wanly at her as she threaded their fingers together and settled both on the middle console.

Grant had changed their lives so much since his birth, right down to driving, and the peace of the empty back seat was strange to contemplate. Still, he was looking forward to the next couple of days. Having Holly all to himself was incredibly appealing, and he did not want to squander the opportunity. Squeezing her hand, Steve purposefully asked after her day, listening to her answer as he guided the blue Buick down the sharp, salted roads.

Darkness had fallen long before they even arrived at the city limits, and the glow of the street lights caused the ice and snow around them to glitter as they cut across town to their destination. The hotel that they'd been directed to had them both staring. While it definitely wasn't a Hilton, it was certainly several steps up from the typical Radisson or Holiday Inn. The lobby was wide and spacious, comfortable chairs and couches dotting the floor, the colors complementing the ocean blue of the walls. A stone fireplace sat along one wall, and the reception desk was place along the other. Branching halls led away from it, to the elevator banks on either side, and to the cafe just beyond. Holly blew out a short whistle in appreciation as they crossed the floor, her grip tightening in his hand as they threaded through the groups of people gathering there. She'd kept her scarf on and pulled up, and he'd thrown on his beanie and aviators before entering the building, but they endeavored to keep themselves as unnoticeable as possible. At the front desk, they gave the receptionist the name Natasha had made the reservation under. The young woman there, red hair pulled back in a sharp bun and her dark blue eyes shining, gave them a wink as she handed over the key cards. In a low voice, she stated that their privacy would be respected, and if they needed anything during their stay, they should call down. Barely relaxing, they elected not to engage any other employees in finding their way to the room. Their bags were light, and they weren't looking to put anyone else out just to get upstairs. Their suite, it turned out, was on the top floor, the elevator they boarded creaking up to it ever-so-slowly (idly, Steve wondered at its age in comparison to the rest of the building, shaking his head when it finally edged its way to a stop). Down the hall and around the corner, they entered the suite, his wife preceding him into the room.

"Wow," Holly murmured, looking around the suite with wide eyes, "remind me to compliment Natasha's taste next time we see her."

Coming up behind her, it was Steve's turn to whistle as he looked around the space. The room itself wasn't lavish, or at least not lavish by others' standards (Tony immediately came to mind, and Steve had no doubt he'd probably deem the place as 'cute' or something similar). However, that wasn't to say it wasn't well-done or put together. The front entry opened to an actual living room area, a small sofa and chair set up around a coffee table. The dresser for the room doubled as the television stand for the wide high definition model perched there. The end tables and lamps were streamlined, dark woods and metals, and the major piece of artwork on the wall was a blown-up photograph. The vibrant green of it lit up the space. Just beyond the archway was the bed, a California king set up in deep red bedding. Another door was a few feet away from the end of the mattress, no doubt leading into the bathroom, but the space was wide and bright, even with early night having already descended. It was lovely and touchable (much as one could appreciate the base accouterments, there sometimes was a feeling that one couldn't touch anything there, because it was so nice). Romanoff had chosen well, Steve could concur, even as a tiny frisson of guilt for taking the room flickered through him.

"Will do," he promised aloud, letting the door swing shut and clicking the lock behind him. Following his wife into the suite, he dropped his bag onto the floor, flopping onto the sofa as she peeked around the room. After a couple minutes of exploration (and bidding him to come look at the jacuzzi tub in the bathroom, something that pleased them both greatly upon seeing it), she leaned her arms along the back of the chair in the sitting area, shaking her head.

"Can you imagine how pissed she is that James couldn't be around for this?" she wondered, her husband grimacing at her words.

"Knowing her, very." He shrugged a bit, sitting forward on the cushions and toying with the remotes set upon the coffee table. "But he's a grown man who makes his own decisions, and he picked up that mission because he thought it was important to do so."

Holly dipped her chin, a knowing look spreading over her features. "It always is important."

Steve's gaze locked onto hers in that moment, all that was underneath her words filtering through their minds. Crossing over to her, he wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her close for several long moments. Relishing the press of her curves to him and the warmth of her body, he pressed a kiss into her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo deeply.

"She'll get her own back when he gets home," he murmured, another peck planted and a smile curving his lips as she snorted. There was no doubt in his mind that Natasha would find a way to seek retribution at a later date, but that was not his concern at the moment. "For now, let's enjoy this."

Holly hummed softly, her fingers kneading tenderly along his back. "Gladly."

After placing their clothes in the dresser and situating their bags in the closet, Steve reminded her of the dinner reservation they would be pressed to meet within an hour. Natasha had called ahead for them, able to transfer her reservation under their name without much difficulty ("The staff will know who you are, but they're discreet," she had promised, reading Steve right in that he was about to reject the idea altogether. It didn't totally make him comfortable, as his notoriety had been involved in keeping the reservation, but it was too late to change plans now). With the time crunch presented, Holly all but took over the bathroom to get ready, something she rarely did at home and so he let it go. He didn't have any pressing urges to take care of, so he could get dressed in peace while he heard her grunting and clanging around in the bathroom. He found himself humming along to the music that was playing on her phone, echoing off the walls and through the panels.

Steve had been dressed and ready to go, idly watching a rerun of some cheesy sitcom for a full ten minutes before the bathroom door finally opened. Letting out a soft groan, he paused in fetching up the toiletry bag that had been perched on the arm of the couch. As she stepped out of the room, he could not look away from his wife. Her hair had been swept off her neck into a small bun, bangs in the front parted and framing her face. His bright eyes darted from the cherry red lipstain down to the dress she'd put on: lacy straps on her shoulders and a slit ending just below the knee in the black material. Around her neck was the caged pendant he'd gotten her for her birthday, glittering earrings dangling from her ears. She hadn't dressed up like that since her friends' wedding in August, and she, well...he inhaled sharply and smiled.

"Look at you," he murmured, rising from his seat on the couch and walking over to her. She gave him an almost shy smile, the heat of his gaze making her own cheeks grow pink under the blush she'd applied.

"Is this okay, do you think?" she asked, brushing down a non-existent wrinkle in the black material. If the place they were going to was fancy enough to require a dress from her and a suit from him, she could only hope that what she had drummed up would be enough (it certainly wasn't designer, but it would do, she'd thought). Scanning her as he took up his toiletry bag and tossed it on the bathroom counter, his eyes darkened a fraction.

"Just right, doll," he told her, a finger gently tracing along the line of her jaw. Using it to tip her chin up, he planted a chaste peck on her lips. "Beautiful."

Her grin broadened, and she in turn looked him over. He'd packed his dark blue suit for the weekend, the dress shirt crisp and capped with a striped tie. The last time he'd worn it was for Grant's baptism, and it still fit him perfectly. The cut molded to and accentuated the muscled build hidden beneath it. The desire to let out a long, lascivious sigh come out was strong, but she kept it in.

"Handsome," she instead pronounced, a lopsided smile on his face and his gaze dropping bashfully. Her fingers curled around the lapels of his jacket and tugged him down for another kiss, this one longer and deeper than was given prior. Breaking off to catch her breath, she felt his fingers shift along her back, and she swallowed hard. "We should probably head out to dinner."

His grip around her tightened, and he muttered almost petulantly, "Do we have to?"

The loud growl of her stomach then was answer enough, and they both chuckled at it. Stretching up, Holly gave his cheek a peck, smoothing down the lapels with her hands and twitching his tie to sit straight.

"Food is a must right now," she stated obviously. With his tie straightened, she secured the top button of his jacket and patted his chest in an 'all done' gesture. Smirking up at him, she retorted saucily, "It'll be good in the long run."

Snorting audibly at that, he still grinned as he grabbed both their coats from the closet, assisting Holly with hers after she'd strapped on the heels she'd brought with.

"Okay, fair enough," he replied, his own coat shrugged on and his wallet stashed in his pocket. Swiping up the keys to the car, he placed his hand in the small of her back, silently praying for the strength to make it through dinner without losing his composure.

 **xXxXxXx**

The lights in the living room dimmed little by little as Scott finagled with the switch. Though he had promised to watch the littlest Rogers, he'd also made some alternate plans of his own for the evening, roughly around the time he was supposed to be in bed. The movie he'd selected earlier played on, which he gladly indulged in for a long while before he realized how close he was cutting it. Fixing the lights, he retrieved the big scented candle he'd spotted in the kitchen, mentally amending his shopping list to include a replacement for it the next time he was at the store. Rifling through the bag he'd brought with him to the house, he withdrew the single bottle of hard cider he'd brought with him, refusing to partake of anything stronger as he was still on babysitting duty. Setting it to one side, he glanced up at the television, watching as the Ark of the Covenant was packed into a crate and wheeled deep into the government warehouse it'd been sent to (or towards the matte painting that represented the warehouse, he mused silently). Scanning the space one last time, he fetched up his personal laptop, setting it on the coffee table that he'd pushed to the side over an hour ago and flipping it open. His password typed and the screen unlocked, he started to hum the theme music as the credits began to roll, and he stepped gingerly around the sofa.

"Now, bud, remember: as cool as Indy is, don't try what he does at home," he instructed the baby as he bustled around the room, added a few last-minute touches to the space. Closing the curtains on the window, he chewed his lip before amending his statement. "For the record, don't do what your dad does, either. Or me. Okay?"

Finished with his task, he brushed his hands off on his pants before turning around. Fully looking down, he drew in a sharp breath, his own eyes widening in delight. Grant had not moved from his little spot on the floor, the bundle of blankets underneath him cushioning him well. He'd wanted the space to crawl and play, and Scott could easily give him that. He'd fallen asleep sometime in the last few minutes, he surmised, his hair skewed and his little pacifier tumbled onto the blanket beside him. However, it was the addition of the corgi curling up along him, one paw resting protectively over the baby's wrist as she napped as well, that made the image all the sweeter.

"Oh, my God. Cutest freakin'...phone, where's my phone?" Scott mumbled happily, patting down his pockets for the device. Failing to find it there, he quickly scanned the room, spotting the phone resting on the arm of the sofa, Swiftly scooping it up, he squatted down, opening up the camera and aiming it to focus on the sleeping baby and dog. "Little guy, your mom is gonna lose her mind over this."

Snapping a few pictures, his computer began to chime low, a call coming in on the video chat. Still preoccupied with taking a good shot of the baby and corgi, he clicked and accepted the call without looking, bending at the waist to get one from another angle.

"Well, aren't you quite a sight, Mr. Lang?" crooned the caller from the laptop, a giggle resounding as his butt filled the frame. Snapping back into the moment, Lang shot up, fumbling his phone for a moment before catching it and smashing it against his chest for safety.

"Hope!" he croaked, taking in a deep breath and facing the laptop. Clearing his throat, he attempted to gloss over his lack of grace and start again, sitting down on the couch and facing the laptop. "Erm, I mean...hey, Hope. It's been awhile."

Bright eyes shone on the other end of the call, quiet humor lacing through them. Hope Van Dyne looked well, color in her cheeks as she leaned away from her own computer. Her dark hair had grown out, the bob cut less severe than it had been several months ago. Ever since his recruitment to the Avengers, she'd been keeping in touch with him, the initial tentative set of their interactions having blossomed as time went on. Scott privately reckoned that was because they evened each other out; she added the dash of seriousness that his existence needed, and he managed to loosen her up enough to laugh even after a day of working with her father on new, secretive projects. However, he hadn't spoken to her in a couple of weeks, being wrapped up in mission work as he was.

"That it has," she concurred, sinking back into the cream-colored couch she was lounging on. Dipping her chin at him, she wondered, "How's babysitting going thus far?"

Scott smiled then, glancing down at the baby still dreaming away on his blanket. "Not so bad. The littlest Rogers is a lot tamer in comparison to some kids I've made the acquaintance of."

Hope chuckled lightly. "Can't believe you're speaking about Cassie."

"You don't know the half of it," the brunet man countered, adopting a faux glare. His grin grew as Hope outright laughed at his expression, at once breaking the facade. With his free hand, he brushed the thought away. "Nah, she was good at this age, too. All the screamers seemed to belong to the other parents in the playgroups."

She gave a hum at that, her gaze sliding over the screen. Looking him over, he realized, and he held himself still. He knew that look, had become quite familiar with it over the last several months, and he felt heat course through him when she tracked it back up to meet his gaze through the screen. Deftly, she leaned forward again, scooping a filled wine glass she had waiting for her and arching her eyebrow slightly.

"Got a moment to spare?" she inquired, her tone lower and huskier in seconds flat. Oh, yeah, he definitely read that right. Despite the evening of video chatting being planned in advance, he wasn't sure what way she would like to take it. Evidently, they were thinking along the same lines. Holding up a one-minute finger, he set his phone to the side, kneeling on the floor and carefully picking up the sleeping baby. Cradling him close, he breathed out a silent sigh in relief when Grant did no more than snuffle against his chest, snoozing on.

"Let me get him in his crib, and then my night's yours, pretty lady," he whispered, getting to his feet. "As I promised."

Hope's mouth curved as she nodded for him to go, sipping her wine and chuckling to herself as he moved, the contained haste entertaining to her. She would wait, and wait gladly, for him to return. Her evening was free, and she would happily spend it with him, in whatever way he could offer.

 **xXxXxXx**

More and more brownie points were being racked up for the Black Widow that night, Steve noted as he finished the last of his meal. The restaurant she'd selected was high end, to be sure, more than either he or his wife were used (even back when they were merely dating, they rarely went to places with three different kinds of forks on the table). Small tables dotted the floor, red tablecloths spread in honor of the approaching holiday. A long bar was spread against the far wall, the dark brick accentuating the deep tones of the wood. Despite that, intimacy and privacy filtered in the air as they were guided to a table toward the back of the main seating area, the host assuring them that discretion would be maintained while they enjoyed their meal. Sure, it was impossible to avoid the curious looks and stares shot at them as they passed, and Steve had begrudgingly accepted that as a matter of course in his life—he could've done without the dark-haired fellow eyeing up his wife when they entered, though. The guy still glanced across the room on occasion, and it took several harsh glares while she preoccupied to get him to turn around.

Ordering from the specialty holiday menu, the couple was treated to a three-course dinner (main dishes being Cornish hen for her, and the steak dinner for two just for him; that had earned a strange look from the server, but his wife hardly batted an eyelash when he'd made the request). The best part of the meal did not come from the food, however. It came from the conversation that they were able to have, the time they were able to give exclusively to one another. Naturally, they adored their son, adored having him in their lives and would not trade him away for anything. However, due to his age, he required a lot of time and attention to be focused on him, and though they did speak to one another and kept each other involved in their lives, it had fallen a bit by the wayside. Out in public, there was very little that Steve could talk about in regards to work—nor could Holly, due to the sensitive nature of some of the archives she'd helped file—but they found a way to work around it. Oblique referencing and euphemisms sufficed, and he enjoyed the sly look she shot him whenever she understood what was under the surface. Talk about the in-laws cropped up, with Holly speculating about her brother's sincerity towards his girlfriend possibly leading to something more, and about her mother thinking of returning to school to obtain a master's degree in library sciences. Steve nodded, telling her about the charity project the team had undertaken, and how it was likely that he and the others would be heading into the city to visit children staying in pediatric wards at some point, mission-permitting.

The company of each other was enjoyed immensely, he could note. And, as well as that, he could note that not all of it was entirely innocent. Having unbuttoned his jacket before he sat down to dinner, he could now feel the creep of a palm resting under his waist, brushing over his shirt and the heat of the fingers bleeding through the cotton. A couple dipped just below the waistband of his trousers, just enough to catch his attention, and he stiffened in his seat.

"Behave, Mrs. Rogers," he said, the warning note in his voice less stern and more playful. The hand traipsing beneath his jacket fluttered across his side once more, drawing out another sharp breath from him before she removed it.

"Take your own advice, Steven," she riposted cheerily, her dark eyes flicking downward as her palm came to rest atop the hand perched on her leg. Her eyebrows inclined slightly, and he merely smiled back at her blandly. She had a point; after all, he'd maintained his hold on her knee—and later on her thigh—nearly since the moment they'd sat down, unable to stop himself from touching her in some way. (It was much easier to do so when she moved her chair to be closer to him, the waiter cheerfully ignoring the slight alteration she'd made when he returned to take their orders.) The black material of her dress was soft against his calloused pads, calling to him to brush and stroke her thigh, inching higher as the minutes passed. He stopped short of doing anything untoward, but he still would not let her go.

The pair of them, due to his reputation and standing, had to behave well in public. Generally, at least.

"Thank goodness for tablecloths, huh?" she stated, taking up her water glass and nonchalantly sipping from it. He nodded silently at that, giving another squeeze to her thigh and smirking when she set the glass down, a cough floating out of her then. She flashed a look at him, her mouth opening to retaliate, but the shuffling of footsteps approaching them cut her off. Their waiter, a young man named Thomas, had been dutifully attentive to them since their arrival, and he remained so even with their plates cleared away and the last of their wine drained.

Tipping his palm out and brandishing a thick, small booklet, he inquired, "Would either of you be interested in dessert?"

Holly glanced at Steve, and he lifted a shoulder, smiling indulgently.

"Is it possible for that to be to-go, please?" she asked the fellow, maintaining eye contact with young Thomas and grinning when he stated that they certainly could do so. Steve's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she took the booklet from him, flipping it open and perusing it with him for a few seconds. Spying one, she pointed to it, pleased when he nodded enthusiastically back. The choice made, she asked for a double order of the chocolate cake, as well as the check.

"Now we have something for later," he remarked when the younger guy was out of earshot. Eyebrows inclined ever-so-slightly, and he shot her a sly, sideways glance. A slow smirk curled over her lips, and she scooted her chair even closer to him, leaning over and nearer to his ear.

"Just what I wanted, sir," she whispered, lips brushing the shell and a shudder shooting down his spine. Heat spiraled from his heart down his abdomen and lower even as she drew away, a finger trailing down his tie as she sat upright in her chair. An impish wink was tossed his way, and he shifted in his seat, clearing his throat as he adjusted his posture. The check and the to-go container could not arrive fast enough, in his opinion, and thankfully they did not have to wait long for it all.

With the credit card run and the slips signed off, the couple rose, Holly holding the take-out container in one hand while the other slipped into his back pocket as they walked. He spiked an eyebrow at her move, but said nothing, the high color in his face saying it all at the moment. It was removed by the time they approached the little counter area in the front lobby, a ticket presented for the person stationed to retrieve their coats from the back.

Leaning against the counter, Steve opened his mouth to ask his wife about her boldness mere moments before when he was cut off, an eager and feminine voice floating in from within the coat check.

"...Hear anything? You were serving Commander Rogers, right? Him and his wife?"

The voice caught his attention, as well as hers, and he silently held a finger up to his lips, urging her to be as still as he to listen. They couldn't spot the speakers, and he surmised that they must have been sheltered somewhere behind the second rack of pegs. The coat room also apparently served as a shelter for the waiters, giving them a place to rest in between taking orders and moving from table to table. Evidently, they did more than just hide out for a break.

Holly's eyes widened, but she dipped her chin; the pair of them modulated their breathing as they heard the young man who had been their waiter to answer his coworker.

"Yeah, but it wasn't much. Mostly talk about their baby, from what I could hear."

The couple shared a glance at that, wry grins coming to their faces. By design, they had purposefully altered their conversation every time the waiter approached, the neutral subject of Grant not really enough grist for a gossip mill. Their presence at the restaurant all but guaranteed that eavesdroppers would be listening in for all kinds of details about their lives, and the waiters' conversation was proving him correct.

Thomas huffed out a fast breath after his coworker harrumphed in distaste. "It's not like he's gonna spill super-secret mission stuff at dinner. In public. C'mon, use your common sense."

"But talking about a baby? That's so boring!" the other countered, riding out a groan under her words. Steve frowned, and Holly visibly bristled, but they kept silent as the second voice scoffed. "You'd think a superhero would at least maybe hint at something."

A few shuffling steps, and the creak of another door resounded. The waiters were leaving the space, and Thomas's retort was distant as he walked out.

"It's none of our business, anyway, dude. At least they were nice, and tipped well. Not like that couple at table four—"

The door slammed shut, and after a few seconds of silence, Holly and Steve let out the breaths they'd been holding.

"Boring?" she asked quietly, tipping her head up to look at her husband. Steve let his gaze slide over her, from the parted strands of her hair to the neckline of her dress, and he clicked his tongue.

"If only they knew," he muttered, grabbing the hand that had gotten a handful of his backside earlier and threading the fingers together. No, he mused, if they had the ability to see into his mind for the majority of the dinner, to read into her own glances under her careful tones and pleased looks, they would have realized how sorely mistaken they could be. Only if they somehow became part of an elite task force, married someone who did more than keep up mentally and emotionally with that, and have a child as well, they would be set to rights. They could not, though, and in truth, he didn't care if they ever knew.

Holly snickered at that, the curve at the corner of her mouth indicating how she was likely thinking along the same lines. Smiling to himself, he curled his arm around her waist once more, his fill of touching not met just yet. In fact, he reckoned it would not be met until they returned to the hotel. And, given the way she leaned into him, her brown eyes sparkling mischievously up at him even as their coats were handed over, she would gladly aid him in that endeavor.

 **xXxXxXx**

Scott signed off the video call roughly an hour after Hope's initial contact. Once Grant was abed, and the little corgi had waddled up to her niche on the second floor, he'd taken his time with the young lady. Certainly, there was not much he could do in regards to building physical intimacy from such a great distance, but Lang prided himself on being...creative.

Something that, when they'd both caught their breath and straightened up themselves, the lady he was still wooing complimented him on. Oh, yeah, he could definitely be proud of that, he thought as he took in the dimmed lights, the soft music playing on the computer, and the burned-out candle on the coffee table beside the device.

Now, however, he was on his own again, the lone adult in the cold of the night. Glancing around the dimly-lit living room, he sighed. Change of location did not erase the fact that he was, indeed, lonely. As eager as he was to continue working with the Avengers, as pleased as he was to turn his life around so significantly, it was difficult to accept the price it came at, at times. He hardly ever saw Cassie, and Hope even less so. Even as he'd made nice with his new teammates, counting them friends, it was still hard to be so far from those he loved the most.

 _'You made your choice, Scotty,'_ he chided himself inwardly. _'And in comparison to others, it wasn't a bad one to make. Just keep going, you'll figure it out.'_

And he would; he'd keep finding ways to balance his work life with the lives of those living apart from him. He'd find a way. He always had before. With that in mind, he pushed himself off of the couch, maneuvering through the first floor to check out the nighttime security set-up. Steve had mentioned that all of it was pre-programmed, and that he wouldn't have to worry about it, but he still contacted JJ through the wireless connection, having him walk through exactly what had been locked and shuttered. Satisfied with all that, Scott turned off his laptop and flicked off the lights as he made his way upstairs, the bag he'd packed for the next couple of days in hand as he ascended to the second floor. Pausing in the hall, he looked down at the corgi on her patterned bed, blinking sleepily at him as he appeared. Quirking a brow, he crossed over to her, snickering as her head popped up and her little body wiggled when he knelt down in front of her.

"Alrighty, Bon-Bon. Would you care to cozy up to another lonely heart tonight?" Off the corgi's quizzical tip of the head, he nodded vigorously. "That's right, girl. With me, you get bed privileges."

The small dog gave a little yip, a paw rising up and tapping at his knee. He shrugged a shoulder, giving her a scratch between the ears.

"I'll have time to wash the comforter before they get home; they'll never know," he murmured, thinking that he could probably play it off as transferring fur from the coach to the bed; Bonnie did shed quite a bit. Nodding once to himself, he opened up his arms to the dog, the corgi nosing at his palms for a minute before bounding into his grip. Lifting her up, he brought her into the master bedroom, given over to his use with Steve and Holly's permission (for her comfort, she'd said she'd prefer him to sleep there, to be on the same floor as the baby in the night, and Steve had conceded the point). Placing the pup on the mattress, he let her do her little dog-circle thing to ready herself to sleep again, taking his time to tiptoe back into the hall to grab up his abandoned backpack. Silently, he completed the trip to the nursery, swiftly cracking the door and peeking in. The golden glow from the nightlight pooled along the far wall, illuminating enough of the space to show that the baby was still in dreamland, safe in his crib and undisturbed. A soft smile curved his mouth as Scott backed out, shutting the door quietly and heading back down the hall.

Maybe he was alone, he noted as he shucked his pants and changed his shirt before heading into the bathroom to wash up. But that didn't mean he was lonely. Not really. Not with the team that worked with him, with the commander that trusted him with something so precious as his child.

The pull of sleep dragged him down within a few minutes of getting settled in the bed, Bonnie half-laying on his stomach and his arm crooking over his face as he laid back.

Sharp, high-pitched wails broke through the darkness several hours later, and Scott snapped up, confused. Cassie was too old to be crying like that, why would—oh, yeah. Slapping his face a few times, he cranked off the baby monitor perched on the nightstand, he forcibly reminded himself of where he was. Not Cassie, Grant. Grant was crying, and he had to get up and help him.

"Hang on, I'm coming, dude," he mumbled, half-asleep still even as he hoisted himself out of the bed, the little dog that had rested on him grunting as he gently lifted her off and away from him. Padding softly down the hall, he scrubbed at his face as he made his way into the nursery, ready to get down to the task at hand.

For her part, Bonnie remained on the bed, too comfortable to leave even with the excitement of the woken house. Burrowing her nose under the flap the comforter that had been pushed up, the small dog was nearly asleep when another cry cut through the air.

"Geez! You do have aim!"

The deeper sounded rumbled through the monitor, and though she did not understand human speech, the small animal let out a huff and rolled over. She was far too content to move, and gladly let the human watching over her home with her continue on without her.

 **xXxXxXx**

"I think we should have cake _after_ from now on."

Steve's declaration had Holly chuckling low in her throat. It was indeed after, the time after their return from the restaurant spent in pleasurable activities. And, as promised, she had brought forth the cake to indulge in, once they'd cleaned up enough and she'd fetched up forks from the downstairs kitchens (the fellow at the front desk was helpful, if embarrassed by the dress shirt and boxers she'd worn, as they clearly were not hers. Steve had given her a weak admonishment for her actions, but ultimately was too pleased in her efforts to really be bothered by it).

She was perched before him, his dress shirt still buttoned haphazardly over her frame and the sleeves pushed up past her elbows to keep clean of the confection they were indulging in. The take-out box sat in her lap, an easy reach for both of them. For his part, he had pulled on his boxer briefs again (once she'd taken them off and returned them), covered for protection against any dropped crumbs.

"Yeah, we could, but then it'd get into the sheets that I have to clean," she pointed out, tapping her own borrowed fork on the lip of the container. She screwed up her brow, choosing then to amend her statement. "Or you would, since you're advocating the idea. These ones, eh."

Her free hand waved dismissively at the bedspread beneath them, still rumpled from their previous amorous pursuits. Shaking his head, Steve dug into the confection again, a sizable bite speared by the tines. The cake was nearly gone, demolished rather enthusiastically after working up an appetite once more.

"So, if we were in the kitchen to begin with, it'd be okay?" he asked her, sounding far too innocent in his inquiry to be taken seriously. Holly turned then, her eyebrows inclining at the impish smirk on his lips. His hand came up, the fork and cake held up to her mouth, and with an eye-roll, she opened up to him.

"Depends," she started around the mouthful of cake he'd fed her. Chewing fast and swallowing hard, she wondered, "Would the cake be picked up from the bakery in the store, or will I have to start adding box mix to the grocery list?"

He shrugged behind her, taking another bite of cake for himself. "Either would be fine with me. I'm not picky."

Snickering, she looked over to the nightstand, noticing the blinking notification light on her phone. Granted, she'd seen it before, but at that point her mind was otherwise...occupied, and she had made a mental note to address it later. Well, it was later, to be sure, and so she leaned over to grab it. Waking up the device and sliding a thumb over the screen to unlock it, an unbidden smile lit up her features as she opened up the messages sent to her. Lang had, indeed, kept his promise to text her when Grant was being put to bed, but he'd attached something extra to the message, and it had her humming in delight.

"Oh! Look at the picture Scott sent earlier," she crooned, dropping her fork in the container and holding up her phone, pure joy on her face. Doing the same, Steve peered over her shoulder at the device. A wide grin came to his lips, matching his wife's as they looked on the picture their friend had texted them. In it, Grant was napping atop some blankets, Bonnie nestled beside him and curling in a protective arch. It was sweet; the little dog really had taken a shine to their son, despite his age, and the feeling was mutual, if the baby's happy squawks when the corgi came into the room were any indication.

"Little guy's all tuckered out, huh?" Steve intoned, his arm curling around his wife's waist. Chuckling, he muttered, "Must've had a fun night."

"Yeah," she agreed, tapping out a message of thanks and appreciation before setting the phone back on the end table. Glancing at her husband, she proclaimed, "We're going to get Scott something as a thank-you."

"Definitely. Him and Natasha," Steve concurred, amending the statement to include the woman who had actually made the evening and weekend possible. Leaning back against the headboard, his free hand squeezed her hip and he sighed as she ate the last bite of cake. "I love our boy, but I'm glad that we, well, go to do this."

Holly nodded, gently moving the now-empty container enough so that she could pivot in her seat. Bringing her legs up, she draped them across his leg, leaning into him and resting her head in the crook of his neck.

"Me, too," she nearly whispered, bringing up a hand to trace patterns over his chest. One of his started to play with her hair, curling the ends of it around a finger. The other rested on her knee, alternating between squeezing it and stroking the skin with the pad of his thumb. The quiet of the room began to settle around them, all at once peaceful and strange. "It's been awhile since it's been just us. Well, just us and not catching up between naps."

It was true; the last time they'd had extended time without their son was back at Christmas, and even then it was only for a few hours. As anxious and concerned as they were about leaving their baby in another's care, they were just as grateful to have the chance to be with each other, their connections to one another independent of their child having the chance to strengthen even further. Steve dipped his chin at her statement, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"Although that wasn't so bad...but I know what you mean," he started to tease, sincerity winning out in the end. Glancing at her, his lips turned down into a frown as he considered something else. "I haven't told you I love you very much lately, have I?"

She tutted under her breath, brushing along his clavicle. "I knew."

A deep breath poured out of his nose, exasperation at himself going with it. "So that's a no."

Holly lifted her head then, looking him squarely in the eye. He didn't need to flagellate himself for something she was equally as guilty for not doing.

"To be fair, I haven't said it a ton, either," she told him, her stomach tightening and a sting piercing her then. She really hadn't told him she loved him in quite a while, and she felt terribly about it now. Shared looks of shame passed between them, and Holly dropped her hands into her lap, plucking at the hem of his shirt as it rode up on her thighs.

"I knew, too," he reassured her, fingers twining into her hair as his forehead rested against hers. Clearing his throat, he bumped the end of her nose with his own. "I do, still. Love you, I mean."

A small, genuine grin curved her mouth, and she tilted her head, enough so that she could lean closer and brush her lips over his as she replied.

"I love you, too, Stevie." Giving him a kiss, another swiftly followed it, mouths opening and entwining as the seconds past. The tastes of chocolate and sugar were passed, along with the flavors that were distinctly their own. Strong arms wrapped around her as she was nudged backward, and the mattress rocked a little under their shifting. One of his legs connected with the empty dessert container, the plastic forks within rattling against the cardboard. Squeaking against his mouth, she pulled away enough to gasp, "You're gonna get cake crumbs everywhere."

Her words died in her throat as he looked down at her, his irises now a thin, blue ring around his blown pupils. An eyebrow arched, and a shiver shot down her spine as he inhaled sharply.

"I couldn't care less about that right now, _mo chroí,_ " he breathed, demonstrating that further as he easily turned her underneath him. Hitching her legs around his waist, he pressed his case, and soon enough neither of them paid the container any mind, even as it flipped open and planted face-down on the comforter.

 **xXxXxXx**

Sunday came quickly, the weekend away coming to a close for Holly and Steve. The stiffness in their postures from Friday night had relaxed significantly, the pair of them feeling all the closer as they packed up and checked out of the hotel. The last day and a half had been spent exclusively in each other's company, the days bearing a strong resemblance to their honeymoon nearly two years ago. Going away, even for just two nights, had been a good thing, it appeared as they turned in their keys and walked out to the car, hand in hand.

Still, even as they'd delighted in one another's company, they were ready to get back home, back to their boy and their lives, complicated as it all could be. Making a few quick stops along the way, they'd made it back to the slate blue house before dark, pleasure and happiness running between them as the found their way from the garage to the back door.

"We're back, Scott," Holly called as they entered the house, her greeting interrupted by Bonnie barking and running full-tilt into the kitchen. Deftly, she knelt, scooping up the small dog and hugging her as she wiggled and licked at her face. Chuckling low, she gave the little dog a few scratches under her chin before rising, sharing a grin with Steve as he took his turn.

"Hey!" the other man called out brightly, his voice beckoning them to come. Upon entering the living room, Steve snorted at the sight, and Holly had to stifle a giggle. Lang was in the armchair, with Grant half-laying on him, half-standing up. With the leverage he could gain from the position, the baby was able to reach up and grab at Scott's trimmed locks, little fingers curling and tugging as he giggled loudly. Shrugging a shoulder, Scott breathed, "I'd get up and say hi, but...he's been fascinated—ow—with my hair—oh, fuh—for the last little while. I think I know how Barnes feels now."

Holly snickered out loud; Grant did the same thing to Bucky when he visited, especially since the new captain was starting to grow his hair out again. It had become the little guy's newest toy, and he seemed to take an almost fiendish delight in pulling on it whenever his uncle held him. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that his daddy had lighter hair, and to see darker on other men was intriguing.

Either way, it was time to free Lang from the miniature torment, and so she padded over to them, reaching to pick up the little one.

"I bet. Alright, baby, you've had your fun," she said, gently disentangled her boy's fingers out of Scott's hair. Once he'd been released, she scooped Grant up, who gave her a look like she'd mortally offended him. Fixing his jaw, his mother merely kissed his cheek and ran her thumb over his lower lip. "Oh, we got pouty lip now. Missed you, too, sweetie."

A bubbling sob rumbled in Grant's throat, and Holly kissed his cheek, knowing he was on the verge of throwing a little temper tantrum. Giving Scott a squeeze on the shoulder, she hastily fled up the stairs, the first cries falling out of the boy's mouth just as the nursery door clattered shut behind her. Shaking his head, Steve stepped over the strewn toys and around the coffee table, setting the bags down before extending his hand out to the other man.

"Thank you so much, Scott," he said, gratefulness and earnestness lining his words. Lang rose from his perch, smiling as he took the proffered hand and shook.

"Eh, he wasn't any trouble." The click of nails and the short yaps coming from the kitchen made him tip his head forward. "Either of them, really."

"Good, good," Steve noted, smirking as Bonnie veritably bounced across the floor and pawed at his legs. Squatting down and giving her a few indulgent rubs, Steve cleared his throat and reached back towards the bag he'd left on the floor. Unzipping it, he retrieved a small bag, holding it up. "Here, we wanted to get you something to properly thank you."

As they'd agreed, Holly and Steve had secured gifts as thank-yous for both Scott and Natasha for their kindness and their time. Romanoff's could be held until work the next day—which would be reimbursement for booking the hotel, as well as getting her a private reservation for the nicer restaurant in town for after Buck's return—but he didn't want the brunet man to wait for his. A bag of cookies had been snatched up at the grocery store, as well as a card, which he'd dug out of the bag as the blond man stood up.

Scott grinned at the cookies before he flipped open the card, his eyes bugging out as he read the scrawled offer: the next time he had a visitor, be it his daughter or anyone else, Steve and Holly would pay for a hotel room for them in Albany to get away for a few days. Steve would work out the schedule so that his shifts would be covered, and he could take the time to be off the grid himself. All he would be required to do would be to pick a date, and then they'd set it up (with one of the more kid-friendly hotels; the one they'd been to was nice, but neither of them could picture Scott or Cassie really enjoying themselves there. They'd need something with a pool, at least, Holly had stated, and Steve was inclined to agree).

"Oh, this is...supremely cool. Thank you," he exhaled sharply, the slackness of his jaw retracted when he snapped it shut. Running his thumb across the printed paper, a devious look flashed over his features, and he grinned as he looked at his leader. "Wow, the weekend must've been really good, huh?"

Flicking his bright eyes to the staircase and up towards the second floor, Steve's smile seemed to take on a lascivious edge as he heard his wife cooing to the baby. Hands came to rest on his belt, and he smirked as Lang snorted.

"Definitely," he agreed.

* * *

 **A/N:** Copious fluff, y'all. Just had to do it. Steve and Holly spend their first weekend away from the baby, and Scott steps up as a babysitter. This was fun for me to write, I'm definitely not going to deny it.

A reviewer last week, _**Sethiel1**_ , asked me a good question as to why I haven't posted any of the main _Of Time_ series on the AO3 website. Thanks for the question! It's a fair one, and I do have a couple reasons why I haven't done more than post one-shots there. The first of which is, that this series is not finished. When I first posted _At Day's End_ , I barely knew about AO3's existence. In fact, I didn't really get into it until near the end of _The Eleventh Hour_. At that point, I had decided that I was unwilling to do the extra work of cross-posting, as AO3 still does not (to my knowledge) allow full transfer of stories from FF. Each of these stories has a minimum of twenty chapters, with at least 3,000+ words in the early works and up to 15,000+ in the later ones; that's a lot of work to transfer and reformat. Plus, AO3 is still kind of foreign to me; even after a year, I'm still trying to get the hang of it, while FF has always been a bit more straightforward. (That's my experience, of course, and I know that new things take time to learn, etc.) As well as that, there is a download feature for stories on AO3. It's a cool feature, don't get me wrong, but that ease of access also means that works can, for some very unscrupulous people, be stolen much more easily. Stolen, and consequently reposted as "their" work. FF at least makes it difficult for someone to copy and paste the works there, and minimizes that. Yes, I realize that someone who is determined to steal a work will do whatever it takes to do so, but I like the impediment that is there on FF. Does this narrow the amount of readers who will see this series, as some people have preferences for the other site? Yes, but I'm trying to keep myself and my work as safe as I can while it's still in progress. For now, at least until the series is completed, they will only be posted on FF. Hope that doesn't deter you from reading on!

And _**Jo**_ : I'm glad you're pumped for the next installment...and you have good instincts. I'm nervous as well, mainly because I generally am before I get a new story posted. But for me, it's a good nervous! Still a ways away from it, so just hang tight.

Lastly, if any of you are interested in the continuation of Holly and Steve's night in between leaving the restaurant and having the cake...I have posted it on my AO3. It's entitled, _Hit the Silk._ Feel free to read if you're of the proper age, maturity, etc. Inspiration pictures for this chapter and the AO3 entry have been posted on my LiveJournal. It's the newest entry for phantomproducer there, so check it out.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any of the pop culture references made in the text ( _Indiana Jones, Ghostbusters_ , the mentioned hotels, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	18. Chapter 18

The air was thick in the conference room that mid-March afternoon. All Avengers on-site were summoned to the meeting, Steve having sounded the call. Bucky had long since stopped questioning the level of importance the summons carried; either way, he had to go, and he had to assess the damages being wrought around the world. Among the first to arrive to the room, he wasn't surprised to see the high definition displays on the walls, each one being fired up and connecting to the necessary parties on the other ends. Fury's face filled one as Maria tinkered with it, Stark's profiled outlining the other as he turned and examined his own set-up. The new captain looked down the conference table, to where his blond friend was sitting. Steve's expression was hard, as if his face was carved out of stone. Noticing his arrival, he merely nodded once to his oldest friend, gesturing for him to sit curtly. Doing so silently, Barnes merely raised an eyebrow at him, to which his friend shook his head. No answer would be forthcoming, not until the others arrived. Little by little, they trickled in, Wilson snatching a seat on one side of him and Natasha as ever on the other. Scott came in last, shutting the door behind him. With the Vision and Maximoff off-base at the moment, there would be no one else to wait on.

Taking the cue, the commander sat up straighter, nodding to each one of them.

"We've got a problem," Steve started, casting a glance over at the screens and Hill. Fury and Hill maintained their expressions of placidity, their true feelings unreadable in that moment. However, Stark's was one of marked distaste, which reflected in the features of his compatriots around the table.

"When don't we?" the tech genius grumbled then, canting his head to the left. When that elicited nothing more than frowns, he asked, "What happened?"

"Ulysses Klaue has escaped from prison," Maria Hill announced without preamble, and the tension thickened in the room. Barnes recalled the bedraggled South African man. Having helped put him away over a year ago, the capture a ploy to get Klaue out of the way so that Zemo could continue his plotting without further hindrance. The other man did not take kindly to that, and had seen fit to warn them, albeit rather cryptically. Bucky had hoped that the last time he'd seen him—enduring his ramblings in an interrogation room—would honestly be the last time. As Hill continued to speak, he surmised that it would not be the case. "Evidently the one he was shipped to in South Africa had a good number of, erm, devoted patrons of his on the inside. Rioting happened, and he was the only one missing when they rounded up the prisoners."

From his spot at the end of the table, Scott groaned, "Cripes."

Sam clicked his tongue, fingers tapping against his bicep as he crossed his arms. "Any idea where he would be headed?"

"Something like that," Fury chimed in then, folding his hands atop his desk and leaning forward on his end. The wry smile he sported was brittle and cold, growing harsher as he went on, "He's been burned by and with Wakanda a lot in the past, and naturally he'll pick T'Challa as the focus."

"Despite the last time being Rumlow and Zemo's fault," Natasha retorted, pointing out the fallacy in the criminal's argument. The director noted it, the corners of his mouth curling involutarily at her observation.

"Well, he can't touch either of them. Zemo's in a stronger, more remote prison, and Crossbones is dead," the older man responded. A fast glance was cast between Barnes and Rogers, the memory of Rumlow's demise and Steve's brush with death surfacing briefly. The director expelled a breath out his nose. "Aside from cursing and spitting on graves, he can't do much to them. He can still get to T'Challa and Wakanda, difficult as that may be."

"What's he gonna do?" Bucky cut in then, resting his hands on the table and staring intently at Fury. "He lost control of his black market arms business; his second-in-command took over his operations after he went to prison. Reports says he completely cut ties after January, give or take a few days."

That was true; after a few failed attempts to get Klaue out, his second-in-command eventually figured out that he did not need to bow to a man who was behind bars. Granted, he certainly was not on the same level as his previous employer was, but he was still able to turn a profit in the black market. He was still a person of interest to them, but once the connection to Klaue was severed, he was no longer a primary focus.

Fury glanced at them all, and shrugged a shoulder. "Like I said, he had devoted patrons, inside and out. An agent of mine who was stationed at the prison reported that he'd bragged repeatedly that he would go after the king if he could, teach him and the Avengers a lesson they wouldn't forget, and several pledged their support from their crews on the outside."

"So, full-frontal assault or infiltration, then?" Bucky wondered, thinking that both routes would have appeal and merit to the ex-arms dealer. Fury speculated that either would be a benefit, provided he could find his way around the heavily-guarded boarders, and the remainder of the team concurred.

"What does King T'Challa think about this intel?" Steve asked the helicarrier director. A blond eyebrow spiked and he continued, "I assume you told him."

"Indeed, he has," a new voice cut in over Fury's answer. The older man's jaw tightened a fraction, but instead of commenting on the interruption, he tapped at the screen on his end, enlarging it to reveal the person standing beside him. It was the king of Wakanda himself; he may have been dressed down in a black tee and dark pants, but there was no mistaking his identity. Folding his hands behind his back, his posture straightened, and T'Challa dipped a nod at the screen. "Greetings, everyone."

A ring of nods and murmured hellos passed around the team. It had not been long since T'Challa had last communicated with them, enlisting their aid in harrying a rogue splinter group from trying to cross the boarders of the country. They were not allowed in, but they were able to get the job done, nonetheless.

"In answer to your question, Commander," the young king continued, "I think that, given his failures at subtlety in the past in regards to my country, Klaue will see no reason to continue on that route. At least, not in its entirety. He might risk open assault with his recruits as a way to slip in undetected through the back door."

Natasha squinted at him curiously. "You intend to let him do that, if he does?"

T'Challa's gaze darkened significantly, and his posture stiffened. "I will do what I must to stop that man once and for all. He has been stealing and hedging around my country for too long, and I will not stand for it anymore. I understand that, ultimately, this is not your fight, and you may reject my pleas if you wish to." His address to them all fell like a heavy blanket, compacted by the stoic set of his features. "However, I would be remiss if I did not ask for aid when it is needed. My countrymen can certainly fight, and they will. However, I would still like to have an...Avenger presence, stronger than my own, to be a deterrent, if you are willing to do so. Two of you, to start with, would be best."

Slowly, the implications sank in. T'Challa asking for help was not entirely new, but asking them for aid on his home turf...letting access be obtained to his home turf...was substantial. Wakanda, to that day, had remained suspicious and wary of any outsiders encroaching on the territory, and permission to pass over the borders could only be granted from the highest office. The silence following his words was downright deafening, but soon enough, one of them had the temerity to speak again.

"When do you think he will mount his attack?" Steve inquired then, heading straight back into business.

"No more than seventy-two hours, at most," T'Challa told him, earning another round of uncertain looks. Cupping a hand in the air, he reported, "He was quite...adamant, if the prisoners' testimonies were anything to go by."

A short silence passed, the gathered team members looking to one another as all that had been reported was absorbed. As well as that, the choice of who would be going sat heavily around them. Were it a year ago, there would be no doubt that Steve would be one of them, at least. However, given the conditions of his new position, he would not do so unless there was no other option. The new captain risked a glance at his teammates, lack of surety roiling in each of them. Clearing his throat, Bucky took it upon himself to make an executive decision, despite the tremors in his heart.

"I'll go." Glancing around at his compatriots, he attempted a weak smirk. "Nothing says 'deterrent' quite like Captain America, does it?"

On his end, Stark's dark eyes glittered, and his jaw quirked. "And nothing says 'deterrent of the deterrent' if Iron Man tags along. So will I."

Shocked looks ringed around the table, eyes darting to one another. Up until that day, Tony had refused to work with Barnes alone. With his part-time aid, he always endeavored to work on missions that required a minimum of three team members assigned to it. The natural need for a buffer between the two was respected, given the past. To hear him say that he would, voluntarily, work with Bucky, was stunning.

"You will?" Steve crowed then, fixing him with an incredulous look.

The older man shrugged, seemingly brushing off the concern. The hard set of his eyes, though, spoke volumes.

"Pepper's talking mergers and table placements for the wedding, despite not having picked a date," he retorted, the affected levity doing little to relieve the renewed tension in the room. Fixing them all with a forced playful look, he remarked, "Trust me, I'm going."

Another bout of silence engulfed them all, the flickers of the past rising and touching each of them in turn as Stark confirmed his wish to head into the mission. Mindful of the circumstance behind the newest well of tension, the king of Wakanda cleared his throat, drawing attention back onto himself.

"We shall also be reaching out to Mr. Chapman, so that you will be supplemented with members from the secondary team as well," he stated, earning yet another annoyed look from Fury. The older fellow did not like having his power usurped, that much was clear. However, even T'Challa could not resist tweaking him a bit.

"Good, representation from both sides. Peachy," Stark said, hooking a thumbs-up at the screen while the others blew out sighs.

"Remaining team members will be on standby, in case it escalates beyond Wakandan capabilities. Call-ins will happen at the captain and King T'Challa's discretion," Steve dictated, the terms easily agreed to by the others. T'Challa nodded as well, inclining his head at the screen.

"Very well. I will see you shortly, then, Captain, Mr. Stark," he told them both, walking out of the frame. Fury, on his end, had the temerity to roll his eye, the drama of the action a little much in his opinion. Remaining farewells were dealt, along with the plan of Barnes and Stark being on the upper deck to leave bright and early the following morning. Throughout that, and the others plotting how best to situate themselves in the coming days, Bucky remained silent, chewing the inside of his cheek as he mused on the developments. The swirl of his thoughts crashed in his head, the cacophony of noise and doubt ringing in his ears. Shaking his head hard, he looked around to see that nearly all had departed from the room. He'd barely heard Natasha saying her good-byes, or her admonishment for him to meet her in the training room in no less than an hour. Hill was at the door, in low-voiced conference with Steve. Clearing his throat, the ex-assassin met their gazes, flapping a hand at his friend to come back into the room. Complying, the blond man dipped a nod at Maria, saying he would meet up with her later.

When he came up to his friend's side, he rested against the table, arms crossing and his brow quirking curiously. Scrubbing a hand over his face, Bucky sat up, meeting Steve's gaze and sighing.

"What do you think, of him and me working together?" he asked, eyes flicking to the screen that Stark's camera had occupied.

Steve directed his gaze to a point along the far wall, several moments lost as he reflected on the issue at hand.

"Could be good, or bad, depending on what you both decide to do while working together," he intoned carefully, a thumb tapping along the edge of the table. Returning his gaze back to his friend, he hummed under his breath. "Tony's not going to risk others' lives for the sake of revenge. Or bad blood. No, if he comes after you, it'll be when it's only at the cost of himself."

Bucky snorted. "Comforting."

"Take it or leave it, Buck," Rogers stated, his features creased into a form of frustration. Both men were his friends, but he would not stand between them any more. For too long, they'd been silent on the issues between them. Sure, they'd taken measures to erase the Winter Soldier together, and they'd been able to work on short missions in each other's company. However, that wasn't to say they were anything close to resembling friends. The open hostility had quieted, and more brewed beneath the surface. It was for them to work out now. Steve could only do so much; Bucky and Stark had to find a way around the hurts of the past. Pushing away from the table, he spread his arms, palms up and placating his fellow Avenger. "It is what it is."

With that, Steve strode out of the room, leaving Barnes to his musings. Whatever happened on the mission, it would happen, and the only thing he could control was his response to it. It was all that Bucky could control, and he had to remind himself that, while it may be unpleasant personally, he did not have to make it so in the field. He would find a way to work with Stark, sans buffers. Or, at least, he had the rest of the evening to figure out contingency plans, in case anything should go sideways.

 **xXxXxXx**

"Sure you want to sit this one out, sugar?"

Natasha let out a low chuckle, tucking back a loose strand of her fiery hair. Dawn had come all too quickly, the hour to depart to Wakanda creeping ever closer. Having spent the night with Bucky (first to help him mock up a few contingency plans in case things went south, and then in slightly more amorous pursuits), she stated that she would see him off in the morning, swathing herself in her heavy coat and boots as she walked with him to the upper platforms. The nerves in him had not dissipated, and she couldn't blame him for feeling that way. There was a lot of import pressed upon the mission, for a number of reasons, and the weight it carried would be enough to make any of them anxious. That he would seek her to come with and be a balance was not unheard of, though he had managed to withhold his request until she'd walked up with him to the quinjet, his duffel in her hands as he carried his shield and compact armor case inside.

Glancing up at her partner, she could see the muted trepidation in his eyes, the genuine wish that she would find a way to get involved at the last minute. However, she knew his motivations were not simply because he'd prefer to be with her. Not just that, anyway. The situation with Stark had reached an equilibrium, but only because there was always someone else with them. This was a chance to find out if that buffer could ever be dropped, or if that particular strain would be permanent, so long as one of them remained on the team.

"Hmm," she started, tapping a finger to her chin as she stood, her foot pressing down on the floor storage locker to make sure all was secure underneath. "I could tempt fate and go, but you saw how T'Challa's guard reacted to me the last time we met with His Highness."

A bark of laughter wormed its way out of Barnes at that. The personal guard, a young woman who over-topped Nat by several inches and held herself with a feline grace, had caught the ex-agent attempting to make her way across the borders into Wakanda. Romanoff had wanted to see if it were possible to set up a perimeter within the borders, given themselves a secure hold without the patrol watching them finding out. She'd barely gotten a few miles into the jungle before she'd been set upon, the taller woman having followed her and engaging her in combat easily. Ultimately, the battle had come to a draw, and she had marched the redheaded beauty all the way back to the encampment the others were staying at, supreme displeasure on both their faces. She'd done her job well, but she had levied the smaller woman with not-so-subtle threats to remain out of the country and out of the way.

It was for the best, then, that the Black Widow elected to hang back on the mission.

A corner of his mouth curled, and Bucky muttered, "For what it's worth, I think you at least walked away with less bruising from that fight."

That earned him a full-fledged laugh, her head canting. Not physically, she hadn't; they both had obtained their share of injuries. However, it wasn't her pride that was smarting at the end of that round, and the female guard knew it all too well.

"Thanks for that," she murmured, smiling warmly at him. Her ocean-colored eyes cut away from him, glancing down the hatch and out to the platform. The agents milling around and prepping the quinjet for take-off were distant, and the ones within were occupied at the helm. Following her line of thinking, Bucky took her hand, tugging on it and drawing her to the end of one of the side hatches. Sheltered from the others, he gathered her up in his arms, bending to meet her as she leaned up for a kiss. His lips pressed to hers eagerly, sating his craving for her touch in slow, smooth strokes.

Even if he'd hoped for her shelter, it was impossible to deny that he would miss her, for her own sake. Her heart thumped at the thought, and when the kiss ended, she exhaled softly.

"Keep in touch," she whispered, closing her eyes as he braced his forehead against hers. The barest nod came from him, and his arms tightened around her.

"I will."

A final buss was dealt, and then she turned away, leaving him with thrumming veins and his mind no less jumbled than it had been the day before. With little fanfare, Stark appeared on the platform, his chosen suit flying in and taking itself to be stored in the opposite wing. He'd arrived at the base late the previous night, almost literally landing and tumbling into bed after doing so (projects at the home lab had been keeping him thoroughly occupied the last several days His duffel was flopped on a bench, whereupon he also perched, strapping himself in and drinking heavily from a large travel mug. Mutters about it being too damn early were issued from him, even as Rogers came up the ramp with last-minute instructions and warnings. Though he himself would not be at the base constantly, he was only ever a call away (which was something his wife must love, Tony groused, a little spark dancing in his irises as Steve rolled his eyes). Strapping in himself, the two men nodded their farewells, and soon enough the agents assigned to pilot the jet were taking them up, the course for Wakanda set.

Unfortunately, setting the course did not eliminate the ever-present tension, the air remaining thick with all that had gone before between the two fellows. Within the first hour, in which the jet leveled out and they were given the freedom to move, Barnes was on his feet, talking almost sternly to the pilots and over his private comm, treading between the cockpit and the winged areas. He all but avoided the benches near the back, Stark having taken to lounging across one as he tinkered with his handheld. When the options of calling out were exhausted, Barnes seemed at a loss of what to do with himself. The nervous energy in him was eating away at him, and he did not know what to do with it. Furtive, fast glances were cast backward at an increasing rate, something the billionaire picked up on all too quickly.

"Relax, Barnes. I'm not gonna kill ya," the tech genius chided gently, unable to stand the blankness and the thick silence around them. He cut his gaze to the bench across from him, silently imploring him to sit down before his air of agita consumed them all. The ex-assassin did nothing but widen his eyes slightly, but he complied. As he sat, Stark was unable to resist a moment of cheek, his own lack of comfort coming into play as the other fellow took his seat. "This time, at least."

A glare was shot back at him, the lack of amusement apparent in the cornflower irises.

"Hmm," the new captain returned, the stiffness in his spine returning.

Growling out a groan, Tony tossed away the device he'd been fiddling with, swinging his legs down and sitting up straight. His dark gaze bored into Bucky's bright one, and his face was absolutely stony.

"Okay, let's just lay it out right now, so we can work," he began, keeping his tone low so as to not attract attention from their pilots. This was between them, and for once, the dirty laundry could afford to just be kept off the line. "No, I don't care for you, for obvious reasons. No, I'm never...I'll never be okay with what you did, brainwashed or no. Honestly, I don't feel like you can ever ask that of me."

Bucky did not shrink under his scrutiny, instead leaning forward, elbows on his knees and his hands lacing together before him.

"I'm not," he told Stark, the weight of his stare assuring him that he was telling the truth. Lifting a shoulder, he relayed, "I don't care that you hate me; go ahead, I deserve it. But I was made field leader, and have been acting as such for seven months. We have yet to work directly with one another, so forgive me if I am not at ease with it." He glanced away then, his head drooping slightly. "Were I in your position, I know how I'd feel about...it all. Gotta watch my back."

It was a thought, an inclination, that would likely never disappear. After all, he'd been instrumental in the deaths of the fellow's parents. Manipulation may have been at play for that to happen, but he still was the one left behind after that horrendous occurrence. Stark let out another grumble, that one loud enough so that the copilot actually turned her head. Snapping his jaw shut, he waited until she obviously face forward again, and he forced his voice into a whisper.

"Fair enough, but I wouldn't have erased data and files, hunted down every scrap of digital info on you—and still do, by the way; that job hasn't ended—if I did not think it was the best thing to do," he told the other man, the stony set of his face reflected back at him. Flicking a few fingers in the air, he continued, "Yes, you are the field leader. The team voted, including myself. Would I have rather had Wilson in your position? Of course, I would. But I've...accepted the terms. I'm not gonna screw everything up just to get back at you. Not when I've done what I could to keep you where you are."

Bucky looked at him, shrewdly picking up on what he wasn't saying. "You're too invested."

Tony nodded, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. "And so are you. So, I'll follow you out there. But don't expect me to change my tune and sing along happily with yours."

Bucky let an eyebrow raise, and he blinked. "So if I give you an order, will you follow it?"

A hard stare followed his words, and the billionaire's jaw ticked slightly.

"If it's to save lives, yes. If it's purely for demonstration, hell no." He snorted hard, flapping a hand in the air. "I didn't do that for Rogers or Fury, and I'm definitely not gonna do that for you."

The terms set forth were more than acceptable, and the taller man dipped his chin once more. So long as Stark could do the job, and do it with him, they would be able to make it through.

"Fine."

"Alright, then. Glad that's taken care of," Tony said, the roiling inside of him having lessened somewhat. There were still a few more hours to kill before they arrived, and the mission as well; it was best to get it all out in the open between them, so that they could work together. He put himself in that position, and the least he could do would be to find a way to get through it with as little difficulty as possible.

"Allies?" Barnes ventured, meeting the billionaire's gaze once more. He did no more than offer the single word, as any embrace—including even a mild handshake—might be too much. Instead, he merely waited for Stark's concession or his denial. Eventually, the older man lifted his eyes up, blinking a few times before he let out a slow breath.

"Yeah."

The two men shared a nod, and from that point on, the flight over the ocean was quieter. The lingering feelings of doubt and distrust were there, but they were manageable as the tech genius and the ex-assassin were able to stand one another's presence. Between last-minute tweaks to equipment and catching up on sleep in the interim, they landed roughly five hours later just outside the boarders of Wakanda. A contingent of the Wakanda Air Guard had radioed in, informing them that the king had chartered his own jet for them. As per an agreement drawn up with T'Challa in the past, their own conveyances—and the agents assigned to those conveyances—were not allowed into the territory. Special permissions were granted on an as-needed basis, and as such, only Bucky and Tony could cross over. Equipment had to be shifted onto the Wakandan craft, the sleek and dark jet of a similar size and shape to the quinjet. However, the engines seemed oddly shaped, rotors missing and the panels atop it smoother. Stark's attention was riveted to it, even as he had to move his suit and his travel bag. Bucky, strapping his shield onto his back harness and tucking in his own belongings, eyed it up as well, backlogging the look of it for future reference. The comms in their ears were deactivated after a final call-in, Fury and Steve both informed that the king would take it upon himself to radio them in case things escalated. Strapping in for take-off, Stark and Bucky shared a dubious glance at that, both of them able to imagine the helicarrier director's frustration and Rogers' mild annoyance at being out of the loop, even for a short amount of time.

The flight of the jet was smooth, much smoother than any plane either man had been on before. When permission to get up was granted, Stark began to poke into the nooks and crannies of the jet, his handheld palmed and his determination obvious. With his focus being on the contraption they were flying in, Bucky's remained with the pilots in the cockpit. Clearly, they would not answer questions about what could be expected in the mid-African nation, so he stuck observances of mannerisms (the language that flowed between them brought dark coffee to mind: a little harsh in the undercurrent, but warm and rich throughout). It was obvious that the Wakandan pilots did not think much of their passengers—though Tony's name was uttered with a bit more reverence—and they most likely had a few opinions as to why their king would invite those two into the country. In less than an hour, the greenery of the jungle broke, the jet curving around and over steep cliffs and mountain ranges to start its descent on the capital city of Birnin Zana.

"Holy..." Bucky breathed, unable to tear his gaze away from the wide window of the cockpit. The capital city was nothing like he'd been led to believe it would be. He'd imagined something more modest amidst the jungle. A cleared area, with a few sizable buildings at most. He hadn't expected glittering skyscrapers, tall enough to rival those in New York City, LED panels lighting up the sides. The metal structures were sturdy, and stretching up and capturing the light of the evening as the sun slid behind the mountains. Little dots of cars trekked along the streets, highways and byways lit by gleaming lamps. Bridges stretched over a wide river, strong suspension cables and beams withstanding any and all elements. It looked like something straight from one of those movies that took place in the future, minus hovercraft and floating robots and such. In the center was a great, shining mound, the glare of it nearly causing him to shrink back. The insular nation, just from the evidence of the capital, was above and beyond what it portrayed itself to be, and he was taken aback by it.

"Gotta give it to the Wakandans," Tony murmured as he sidled up beside him, sounding almost as if he were in a daze at the sight. The corner of his mouth quirked, and he canted his head. "There is power in underestimation."

Descending into the capital city, the chartered jet landed precisely on a cleared airfield, bordered by thick foliage. The jungle whirred and chirped, even amidst the concordant chaos of the traffic within the city. A veritable battalion of guards flanked the small strip as the jet rumbled down the track. Men and women, stoic and silent, watched them as they disembarked from the hatch. The feeling of being under examination, of being studied, was strong, and Bucky had to fight to suppress the cold shiver that threatened to run down his back. Naturally, the guard sent ahead by the king were all citizens of the country, and no doubt held a healthy level of suspicion for the outsiders that were allowed access. As one, they circled the pair of men, the tribal markings on their clothes and the stern set of the faces eclipsing all else in their view. And, strapped to into holster, were weapons, barrels and lines gleaming with the brightness of vibranium. Barnes and Stark glanced at one another, at the uniform set of the guard shuffling them to a black SUV parked at the end, and kept quiet. Their bags and equipment, save the shield that remained strapped onto Bucky's back harness, were stowed in a second car, Tony's suit absurdly riding shotgun as the convoy pulled away. The streets they traversed, as they glanced out the shaded windows, looked no different from any other city's, and in that, they took a measure of comfort.

A large gate suddenly loomed before them, bearing the flag of Wakanda in hammered steel. The driver of the SUV thumbed a control on the dash, not slowing down as they approached. Speaking in a hushed, rapid tone, a single chime resounded back, and the gate started to open. The city itself was gorgeous, and the palace for the kings of Wakanda was nothing short of that, as well. Flags and markings of the tribes of the country were inscribed upon the facade, the heavy doors of it emblazoned with the face of a panther right down the center. It was large and grand, the polished stone set amongst the tended flora and hedges ringing it. However, they were not to enter through the front doors. Instead, they were taken down a side drive, set between an allee of transplanted trees.

The side door, arching beneath a shaded overhang, was just as embellished as the front door, and neither man was really affronted by the idea of coming in a side entry as the SUV slowed and stopped.

Two female guards waited for the men to exit the vehicle, members of the Dora Milaje. The king's personal guards spoke not a word to them, instead gesturing them forward and through the side entrance they'd arrived at. The women, tall and deceptively unassuming in their black garb and markings around their eyes, were shadows, taking in all even as Tony and Bucky said nothing. (Quick glances flashed between them as they eyed up the painted shield on Bucky's harness, and he sucked in a breath as eyebrows quirked.) Their things, such as they were, were bundled off to private rooms assigned to them. They, however, had a meeting to attend with King T'Challa first, and so they made their way behind two more of the Dora Milaje.

The halls of the palace were wide and airy, opening up to skylights designed to capture the most light from every cardinal direction. The soles of their shoes, boots and sneakers clattered around them as they moved, eyes scanning over the traditional tribal weaponry on the walls and the photographic portraits of those who had passed. Upon spying one of T'Chaka, Barnes swallowed hard, dropping his gaze to his feet as he walked. The failure to save the older man's life still weighed in his soul, more blood on his hands, and was his burden to bear. Stark wisely held his tongue when he noted the downcast turn of his expression, instead focusing on the simple opulence of the palace.

Rounding a corner, one of them halted the pair, silently opening a door and pointing into the room. It was a sitting room, couches bordering the walls and paned windows letting in the remaining light of the day. Draperies surrounded the glass, and woven mats and artwork decorated the walls. One end of the room was lined with bookshelves filled to the brim with novels and texts. They were to wait, evidently, and with nods, the two men went as they were bid. As the door shut behind them, they also noticed they were not the only occupants of the room. Joe Chapman was there, waving them over to where he and his companion had been waiting. Emily Guerrero, the secondary team's telepath, was rubbing her temples, managing a sweet enough smile when the greetings went around. The palace, she told them, was abuzz with so many things unsaid, and it was starting to give her a headache. The four of them spoke softly, Tony's typical irreverence subdued and Chapman's joking nature dialed back as they awaited either the return of the guards or the arrival of their host. Minutes ticked on the clock on the far wall, and soon enough, even the small talk died away.

Before another rotation of time could pass, the door to the sitting room swung open, the female guards from before entering first. Taking spots in the four corners of the room, they bowed their heads as T'Challa came in. The young king was deck in a sober suit of black, the ceremonial claw necklace he'd inherited upon taking the throne around his neck. Acting almost without volition, the Avengers in the room stood up, sidelong glances cast between each other even as they nodded respectfully to the monarch. A palm came up, halting their obeisances, and T'Challa quirked a small grin.

"Thank you all for coming," he said, relaxing his posture and walking up to them. It would not do to greet them as a king, when he had truly called upon them as a fellow Avenger. "I appreciate your support."

Going to each, he clasped their hands, the shakes going a ways to ease the ruffled, unsettled feathers they all were bearing.

"We're glad to help where we can, Your Highness," Emily returned, finding her tongue first. Following her lead, the other men concurred, dipping nods to the king.

"Good. You'll all be helping much sooner than I'd anticipated," he pronounced carefully, the raised eyebrows of the summoned Avengers hardly surprising him. Tipping a hand to the couches, he motioned for them all to sit again. Taking a seat himself right beside Emily, he perched on the edge, ready to get down to business. "My border patrol has reported a caravan pushing past the guards along the southern road."

His fingers dipped into his pocket, withdrawing a small, black remote. Clicking one of the top buttons, a holographic projection came up from the coffee table. It was video obtained from a security feed directed onto the mentioned road, the previous evening's light barely catching the roar of tarp-topped trucks blowing past the enforced gates. The ring of eyes stared at it, and Barnes let out a fast breath.

"Klaue's troops," he murmured, and out the corner of his eye he saw Stark slide a finger along the table's edge, examining it closely.

"His distraction. It's doubtful he'd be with them," he remarked, glimpsing Barnes and Chapman nodding in agreement to his statement. Flicking his dark gaze to the king, he wondered, "Any word from the spy network?"

T'Challa blinked at that, his eyes widening the tiniest margin, and the tech genius nearly rolled his.

"I know you have one; please don't look so surprised at that. Everyone has one these days."

The smile the young king sported became a touch more genuine then. "I'm not surprised, just pleased you are considering all options, Mr. Stark. Yes, my central network has also noted another sizable group dashing past the patrols and into the jungle several days ago. Likely they intend to make for the city."

"The jungle?" Chapman coughed then. His eyebrows had inclined at the king's words, and he gestured at the digital map. He may not have much experience with the jungle there, but he'd experienced enough missions going south and needing to lie low in various countrysides. He could imagine how treacherous it could be, especially since they were rumored to be among the most dangerous natural spaces in the world. "Could they survive that?"

T'Challa hummed low in his throat. "If they know what to look out for, they could. I do not anticipate more than half to make it through, and I'm sure that Klaue knows that as well. He'll see to himself, and that will be enough."

Klaue had to, he ruminated privately, he absolutely had to know where he was going. As he'd made it past the borders before, and even absconded with a hefty portion of vibranium that had been in transit between cities, it was likely he knew a route through the jungle, past the dark and dangerous threats that lurked deep within it. Going in to search for it, at that point, would be another risk of suicide, one that T'Challa was unwilling to make. Better to let the criminal find his way out than to chance going in, particularly with the sun setting.

Joe clicked his tongue, looking around the well-furnished sitting room pointedly. "Running an attack on the palace is straight suicide, and I doubt even if he'd lost his mind, he would attempt that."

The king inhaled sharply at the astuteness of his fellows, clicking the button on the remote once more.

"I anticipate he will attack here."

The city skyline replaced the images of the border patrol, one of the buildings highlighted in gold.

"What is it?" Barnes wondered, bracing his hands on his knees as he leaned forward to inspect it closer.

T'Challa met his gaze frankly when he looked up. "An arsenal."

"Filled to the brim with high-tech weaponry and more vibranium than you could shake your shield at, I bet," Stark breathed, pure delight and hunger lacing through his irises. Given his observances of the guns he'd seen in the holsters of the Air Guard, he knew that there was much more going on beneath the surface. Purposefully evening out his expression, he inquired, "How fast can someone get permission to check it out, Your Highness? Just for safety's sake?"

T'Challa gave the tech genius a wan smirk, the humor not reaching his eyes. The guards posted at the corners of the room muttered under their breaths, indignation at the outsider's audacity and how their king could tolerate such an off-handed request filtering in his ears. Holding up a hand, he silenced them, his next words appeasing them somewhat.

"Not fast enough, Mr. Stark," he said, completely shutting down the notion. The hunger in Tony's face discomforted him as well; he knew that, while the man had integrity and would not outright steal any designs of theirs, he could successfully analyze any weaponry by sight, and find his own path to replication. He reckoned he was speculating enough at what he could see off his private guard. It wouldn't do to let him inside that government facility. Inclining his head at the digital map, he stated, "It is the arsenal for my elite guard, and our leading facility in testing and manufacturing vibranium and weapons. He's tried in the past to get there, nearly succeeded a couple of times. Zemo used him to obtain the leftover HYDRA stock, and he used some of it in his attack last time."

Bucky crossed his arms, the metal fingers of his left hand clicking quietly as he got up and started to pace around the room.

"He termed it as a distraction, then. For him and for us. I doubt that's the case this time. If he gets his hands—well, hand—on any one piece of equipment, he has enough to manufacture and duplicate his own. It wouldn't be long before another full assault could be made." The new captain cut a sharp look around to his fellow Avengers, pointedly lingering on the king of Wakanda. "Your resistance would be...less."

The king of Wakanda stared back at him frankly. "Hence why I have called you out. My army is strong, my soldiers able, but Klaue must know I do not consider him an idle threat. Deterrent, as I said."

"Distraction, really," Joe murmured quietly, stating what the king truly meant. "We stay on the outside, you go after whoever gets inside."

T'Challa did not respond verbally to that. Rather, he clasped his hands in his lap and dropped his gaze onto the map. It was as Chapman had said, and he would not deny it. The Avengers would be acting in that capacity, with the hope that their presence would be enough to either shake the encroaching insurgents to a standstill, or to take them on instead. He did not think Klaue would let himself be drawn in by them, and so he would leave himself to T'Challa unwittingly.

Still, they were not leaving him in indignation, not protesting to the use of them in such a way. The small group of those gathered perhaps understood, better than he, the need to do as he plotted. The main concern, the main focus, would be to put Klaue back in prison, where he belonged. And it would be done, one way or another. This way, at least, came with the king of Wakanda's blessing, and aid.

"This is a lot for a former arms dealer to take on, just for misplaced revenge," Emily put in, breaking the quiet and her dark brows furrowing in thought. Snorting, she added indelicately, "And with only one arm, no less."

The young king turned to her, the shutters in his dark eyes dropping away. She started to blink rapidly, the thoughts and images behind the cool exterior screaming to the fore then. Memories of darkness, of a burning-hot brand searing flesh, of bright eyes under dark hair and a mouth screeching in vain against his captors surfaced, Klaue's hot and consuming rage reflecting onto the soul and mind of the reserve member of the team. Outwardly, all T'Challa did was raise an eyebrow at her, and he crossed his arms.

"It is, as you said, for revenge. One does not always think clearly when fury takes over the mind. And I don't think I need to remind you all of what one simple person can do, given time and energy to act." A flash of pain ripped through him as Zemo's face surfaced in his mind's eye. He'd had the time, the energy, and had cost so many so much. He had cost T'Challa his father, some instability at the beginning of his reign, personally. The world nearly paid more dearly than he. And Klaue, though not of the same caliber, was undoubtedly cut from the same cloth. Forcibly pushing the images of the pale-faced monster away, as well as those of the thief who'd breached his borders and threatened his people once too often, the young monarch pronounced, "He's been imprisoned for a year, over that, with plenty of time to plot out what he would like to do. Once he had the opportunity, he seized it. It is unfortunate that his standing the past did not merit him a place in one of the higher-security prisons, but once he's captured again, that will be changed, and for the better."

The import lent to his words drew up the captain's gaze, cornflower blue eyes nearly searing into T'Challa as his jaw tightened.

"Do you intend to put him there yourself, Your Highness?" he asked, stopping in his treading to wait for the answer. The stress laid upon his title was not missed, and T'Challa inhaled deeply, his answer flowing forth without hindrance.

"The Panther will do what is necessary to make it so."

The clock on the wall ticked even louder in the silence, all members of the Avengers assessing one another and this most determined young man before them. Tick, tick...and then, the new captain inclined his head, the other three sinking back into their seats.

"Okay," Barnes acceded, finally sitting back down. Turning his palms up, one flesh and one metal, he gestured for him to start once more. "Tell us what needs doing, and we'll do it."

* * *

 **A/N:** ...Part one of a two-part update this week! More Avenger action, with Bucky as a focus. Wanted to touch a bit on Wakanda, and its king, ever since the trailer for BP came out...hoo boy, that's gonna be a fun ride, I think. But this is me touching on that, at least.

Bucky and Tony working together...that's gonna be interesting...

Second part will be coming either later tonight or sometime tomorrow! Stayed tuned for that!

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	19. Chapter 19

Five days. It had taken five days to get to that point, and now, his crew was late.

Ulysses Klaue was not a man of incredible patience, but he did have enough of it to look upon time-sensitive situations realistically. His escape from prison took longer than he'd liked, but it did happen within a reasonable amount of time. His behind-bars associates were intrigued by his wealth of knowledge on Wakanda, about how he'd seen the Great Mound, and his absolute surety that he would return once again to make off with another large haul of the most precious commodity of the place. He gotten in and out, so many times over the years, it was all but certain he would do it again. Those stories, those promises intrigued them enough to the point that they were able to orchestrate for their connections on the outside to get him out and back to work. The riot could've gone better, but manhandling and being bundled by two paid-off guards into an unmarked van—only to be dumped out once outside of Cape Town—was fine in comparison.

Klaue promised them the best of what Wakanda had to offer, the very same promise he was given years ago when he was first tempted to cross the borders. Vibranium, and the whispers of such things molded from it, had beckoned, called to him. Still called to him, after decades of fleecing and building up his business. Before his imprisonment, he never took more than he figured would be his due, if the country would ever just open up and actually start trading beyond the textiles it was purported to have. The last run had been botched, had been set up to fail, and he didn't take that kindly.

No king, no prince...no Panther would ever make him take it kindly. He would make it right, and he would bring them down, one by one, until he received his due.

Another couple of days had to pass after his escape, to break into one of his safe houses, to gather up what little crew was still loyal to him, and for them to bring in any stragglers looking for a cause. Looking for a fight, or easy money, something he could promise without any intention of delivering. He'd gone toe to toe with much scarier beings in his time; thugs and hard-asses from the streets were nothing to him.

He also derived a nearly perverse amount of amusement when those very thugs understood what he had planned for them exactly. Those who were picked to come in the back way of Wakanda. Too late by that point, for him and for them. Once one entered the jungles, you didn't just walk out.

Too many things in there wanted anybody, anything that stepped off the path, which Klaue knew all too well. His chosen path, though, brought the others through to safety. Those who stuck with him survived (whether they were driven by greed, by insanity, or by the sheer knowledge that they'd die without his guidance, he didn't care). They were still there, when the dense trees and creaking growls of the bush melted away as the sounds of the capital city rumbled louder and louder.

Birnin Zana was as he remembered it: a sleek and modern oasis amidst the harsh and unforgiving backdrop of the Wakandan wilderness. The cover of darkness lent little shelter to their crossing (the city was lit nearly around the clock, metropolis that it was), but there was enough for him and his small crew to make their way up town, to an associate of his stationed in the dregs of the city. Favors were owed, and he called upon the fellow to deliver. A plan had brewed in his head as he languished in his cell, one that was deceptively simple, and therefore the best to follow.

Reflective vests, helmets, jeans and flannels (his pinned to the shoulder, sod it all), a few signs and traffic cones all into the back of some rusty jalopy with hazard lights atop it were given over. The building, the arsenal assigned to the king's private troops and guard—as well as housing the top labs and scientists working on ever-more productions for their metal commodity—was to be blocked off, the main road and side streets deflecting traffic while he found his way in. A side door had less security checks attached to it, and it would be easier to shoulder his way in. From there, the building would likely go into lockdown, but not before he could get to the back stairs. The offices were not to be bothered with. He wanted the labs. He wanted the weapons, and he wanted any raw vibranium he could walk away with. In and out, and then back home, to rebuild and return much stronger than before.

Klaue would come back for the lot, and put up enough of a fight to bring Wakanda to its knees.

Which could only be done once the sun had gone down on the second day. Which it had; he and his men took point on the streets, posing as city workers mending a gas leak or the like (he had to remain hidden within the group; his lighter complexion and single arm would draw far too much attention in comparison to his hired hands). The low, squat office building was darkened, sleeping for the night with nothing amiss. All was set, ready...

And the bloody trucks were bloody late. He rolled his amber eyes in irritation, keeping a lookout for his wayward crew, the last of his patience being worked.

One kid, fresh-faced despite his travails in the jungle, adjusted the ill-fitting reflective vest and helmet, glancing at him warily as ever. His constant fidgeting and bloodshot looks were eating away at his nerves, as was his constant questioning. If he hadn't needed the extra body, he would've dumped the little junkie well before crossing the border.

"Do we move yet?" he asked, trembling fingers swiping at the curve of his jaw, scratching next at his cheek. The other fellows around him, soldiers for hire and disassociated gang members alike shot him looks with varying degrees of heat, while their leader's jaw stiffened. Slowly, carefully, the older man marched over to him, his hand snatching at the neck of the younger one's flannel and drawing him in close.

"Ask me again and I'll move your insides to your outsides," Klaue veritably growled, the green associate shrinking down a little as he glared. Raising his eyebrow minutely, he snorted and shook his head. Turning his attention back to the main road and shoving him away, he muttered, "Not until the trucks come."

The squirmy fellow nodded, his shakes increasing as the ex-arms dealer stepped away, crouching down with some sort of tool withdrawn from his pocket and poking at the tar. The older man scrubbed at the thick scruff on his face, shaking his head at himself once more. Should've dumped the kid, really, but at that point, prison-escapee beggars could not be choosers. He let the young guy in, mainly because he came when the general issue went out, and he would take what he could get.

Through the rumble and the crunch of tires speeding by, louder ones emerged, and he had to stifle a sigh in relief. Canvas-topped trucks sped down the freeway, screeching to a halt at the junction and blocking it off. Volleys of horns, and shouts in Wakanda and Housa, began to echo around them, the disruption to the flow of traffic all-consuming to those on the road. Smirking to himself, Klaue pushed his helmet off his head, fingers raking through his messy, dark curls and his shoulders squaring.

"Go, now," he instructed, all the men with him dropping their stolen equipment and shucking vests. Half of the group would meet with the truck crews, mounting an assault at the front doors as the ultimate distraction. One after another spilled from the backs of the trucks, angry shouts and blasting horns ricocheting through the air, guns fetched up from the hidden hatches on the sides and in the cabs. Going up to the leader of the outside crew, Klaue palmed one of the pistols for himself, walkie-talkies handed around and him motioning for the crew that had arrived with him to head out. Just as they were preparing to round the corner, the front doors of the building burst open. The fire of thrusters drew him up short, and the ex-arms dealer's eyes widened almost comically.

Three uniformed bodies remained on the ground while the red and gold plates of the other shined as it flew. The flag of the United Kingdom could be glimpsed on one, the other bearing a star in the center of the chest, with red and white plates projecting to the waist. One had a cowl drawn up, the A on it stark against the dark blue material. On his arm was a gleaming shield, the colored bands and shining metal causing his teeth to grind. The third, a young woman in white and black, with the lower half of her face covered, extended her hands, a strange sort of ripple emitting from them. Watching as those near at hand to her crumple without being touched, Klaue inhaled sharply.

Was he surprised? Somewhat, but only in that the king had been cowardly enough to actually call upon them to come.

His men, however, were more inclined to show their shock.

"Oh, Jesus. The Avengers, the Avengers are here," babbled the young kid, dark eyes wide and his teeth nearly chattering in fright. The older man gritted his teeth, pushing past the young guy to get to the side door.

"Figures," he muttered, shoving through those who had made it through. Initiating the pass-code sequence at the panel of the door, Klaue retrieved the stolen ID card he'd been given by his associate. Tipping his head back toward the front, he stated, "They'll keep 'em busy, then."

The younger man wasn't having that explanation, reaching out and tugging at his bad shoulder. "Sir, what about—"

The poor kid didn't see the hand coming, the hit knocking him squarely in the mouth and leaving him dazed on the ground. The fellow hit the dirt hard, crying out as a booted foot was shunted right into his gut. Winded and wounded, the younger man curled in on himself, unable to see his employer's dispassionate glare.

"Fodder, the lot of them," Klaue told him, his gimlet gaze hardening further as the door locks clicked open. Scanning the shivering, quaking mess beside him, he made a decision and clicked his tongue. "You, too."

Before the young man could say anything, do anything in response, Klaue had pushed in behind his fellows. Slamming the door shut firmly in his face, he breathed out a low breath as the locks slid home once more. Looking around to the others, he jerked his thumb at the panels before striding away.

"If he lives through this, remind me to fire him."

The men nearest to him nod silently, their aghast expressions buffed away into stolid compliance. Wouldn't do them any good to draw individual attention onto themselves, and so it wouldn't be risked. Nodding once, Klaue led the way through the facility, his rudimentary understanding of the Wakandan language letting him understand where he was heading when they chanced a look at the signs. The distant pops of gunfire and screams from the street cut through the air, the building itself quiet. Shining borrowed flashlights down the halls, he led his men to a back stairwell, an emergency exit that would lead them right to where they needed to go. Picking the first of the lab levels, he brought his elbow up sharply against the glass of the inset window of the door. As it shattered, he stuck his hand through, depressing the handle on the side and forcing the panels to open. Another long, dark hall stretched before them. Pointing to two of his crew, he instructed them to guard the entrance, making them stay until he returned with what he sought.

One lab, one project...if he could take just one thing with him, he would be golden. He just had to pick the right one out of the bank of windowed walls surrounding them...

Overhead lights came on then, Klaue and his men stumbling blindly for a moment as their eyes adjusted to the brightness. Once that happened, he huffed out an incredulous laugh as his men stared on in confusion and wariness. He was there, standing at the end of the hall, all black suit and weaved vibranium lacing around and up into the full face mask, to the claws and pointed ears.

The Black Panther stood, coiled energy in his stance as he waited, unwavering in his stance. It was as it ever had been with him, the few times they'd met. He, a creature of the shadows, pouncing at the last moment and tearing all hope asunder.

Well, Klaue was not ready to play that game. Not anymore.

"We gonna dance this dance again?" he asked superfluously, an eyebrow raising the barest fraction. The Black Panther's arrival did not ruffle his feathers overmuch, save for the fact that he would be an annoying thorn in his side until the job was complete. The uniformed fellow took a few steps forward, the opaque eye lenses in the mask seeming to contract slightly.

"Stop coming here, and we wouldn't have to."

Taking a step forward himself, Ulysses scoffed.

"But see, you have what the world wants, needs," he groused, gesturing with his pistol in hand. Though he knew the weapons that had been procured were not on par with those of the guardsmen and army in the country, he knew that even a regular bullet would still pack a punch, no matter what it came out of. And while he also knew little injury could be had on the Panther's body, he reckoned if he shot him in the head, it would make some mark. Warming to his theme, his voice increased in volume. "And you can only deny it, us, for so long. Eventually, they'll come, and they'll take everything from this place. Just like me."

Another few steps, and the man in the suit gave a flyaway swipe through the air with his claws. "You have yet to take anything but your own hubris away with you."

Klaue smirked again, the bitterness of it souring him to the core. Looking at his men, the fifteen fellows who had made it through the jungles of Wakanda straight from the streets of Cape Town, he decided to let the shadowy creature understand whose hubris would carry the day.

"Should've brought in some of the super-hoard from outside. I'm not walking away with anything less than what I've lost." He gestured with the gun again, that time letting the pistol level with the Panther's mask for a moment or two. "And your head, too. Be good for your people to see, right?"

A crackle and shout came over the walkie-talkie strapped to his hip, asking if they were ready for the next wave. Grumbling under his breath, he tucked the barrel of the gun in the waistband of his pants, his hand freed to click onto the line and make the call.

"Go for Two," he commanded, noting the Black Panther stiffen minutely out the corner of his eye. Raising an eyebrow, the older man gave a malicious chuckle. He'd known about his plans to attack, fine. But it was clear that he did not know about the second wave of insurgents that he'd hired out of the discontent populace, from discharged soldiers and all sorts of people not content with the way things were run. He'd drained the last of his resources, buying in with people to betray their own country, but he felt it would be worth it, in the end. Taking out his gun again, he postured almost playfully. "Yeah, first wave got your attention. Second wave, now that's just for fun. You plan for that, or not?"

The Black Panther remained silent, his faceless demeanor unreadable in that time. Precious seconds were being wasted on the folly, and Ulysses had half a mind just to take a shot before trampling over him, just to speed things along. However, the deep, rich voice from behind the mask resounded with a few moments.

"I am giving you one more chance. Stand down, and walk away." The lenses narrowed again, and the covered head tilted slightly to the left. "I might let you go without a brand this time."

That earned him a full bark of laughter, though it did not reach Klaue's eyes.

"I've already lost an arm, and burns don't hurt after the first. I'll take my chances with you, Panther."

With a final nod and a curt gesture given, the first fellows of his contingent shot forward, preparing to dispatch the Black Panther with all haste.

 **xXxXxXx**

As had been predicted, the insurgents had come to meet them head-on, and the Avengers summoned to Wakanda charged into them fully. Spitting fire rained around them, from the ground and from the nearby rooftops. The ground crews were left in the hands of his teammates as Iron Man took to the air, firing off his own shots with alacrity. For every spit of fire from the nearby buildings, he responded with his own brand of it. At one point, he even mimed blowing smoke off his gauntlets as he finished with the last brace of them (though the effect was ruined due to the fact that his helmet hid his face, therefore rendering the gesture useless).

"Hell, he came prepared, didn't he?" Chapman shouted to his comrades, hooking his arm through the crook of one of his attacker's and flipping over him before kneeing him in the face. Synapse gave him a pointed look, gritting her teeth as she concentrated on the pool of insurgents around her, sweeping her hands in an arch and felling them with a single manipulation of the brain.

Catching his shield after a rebounding toss, Barnes snorted as he plowed his elbow down into his opponent's back."I doubt half-assing it was ever an original plan. Stark, how's it looking up there?"

"Well, the two luck winners of the sniper raffle have already been dealt with. Beyond that..." he trailed off, the blinking red on his HUD catching his attention. Bio signatures were lighting up, surging forward from the side streets, and he groaned aloud. "Oh, shit."

"What?"

"Second wave of highly pissed-off insurgents, coming in fast," he warned them, diving down and rocketing straight towards a contingent flocking from the eastern road. Barreling into them like a bowling ball into animate pins, he turned and flashed a few repulsors to deter the rows of hired hands behind them. JJ's analysis of the area spiked along the HUD, and he read it off quickly to his compatriots."West and North roads are swarmed, and they'll be there in—"

"Already here!" Barnes barked back, causing Stark to twist and shoot upward for a better look. Watching, he witnessed a wave of dark-clothed insurgents spilling out of the nearby allies, veritably swarming the three of the ground as well as the officers who finally responded to the threat. Spying the glint of the painted shield in the street lamps, and the deep _oomph_ of a hard hit landing, the new Captain America was back to growling down the line. "Get your ass down here, tin can!"

Rolling his eyes, he felt his gut lurch a bit as he propelled himself forward and down.

"Don't get your panties in a twist, I'm coming," he grumbled, landing squarely amidst the chaos as it ensued. Repulsors glared and cut, popping pyrotechnics flashed around him as he moved from one hired soldier to the next, moving fluidly as was required of him as an Avenger. When the herd was thinned enough, he paused to take stock of his fellow fighters, to assess and situate himself accordingly.

Synapse was near at hand, abandoning her mind-melting abilities as some of the tougher guys moved behind her. Arms wrapped around her from behind, but before Tony could lend a hand, she was rocking with the fellow's weight, twisting and writhing until she was freed. Sharp jabs and kicks followed, chops and flying kick lending credence to her years spent studying martial arts. The little girl from the Bronx was taking names in addition to kicking ass, fists and feet flying in a flurry around her when she could not use her gained talents. Union Jack slashed and shot through one after another, the flag of his country standing out starkly against the black and gray-decked hired hands. He moved in synch with his teammate, almost like a coordinated dance of punches and slashes.

And in between it all, Barnes was darting from one to the next, their ragtag group held together as he bobbed and weaved, shield soaring and his own shots fired from the specially-designed Glock holstered to him. A few knives flew as well, biting through the armor of their foes as he leaped and kicked, punched and blocked against attacks. His style was rougher, harder than his predecessor's, but he more than managed to get the job done. It was as he had noted some time ago, but the differences between him and Steve still struck him. That, and the similarities as well.

Assessment finished, Stark was still taking on a group of thugs of his own, the remaining few scattering when a rocket launched from his wrist and blasted into the street. Though they were deterred, one fellow was not, rushing headlong at him. Harrumphing under his breath, he failed to notice the truck behind him hurtling towards him. Not until the sensors were screaming did he pay attention, as the fight around him was distraction enough. Suddenly, the grate impacted into his body, knocking him off his feet and bouncing him on the ground. Another rev, and the truck bore down on him again, catching him on the undercarriage and dragging him up a few feet. His brain rattled in his head even as he raised his hands, repulsors blasting into it and knocking the truck onto its side. Freed, he tried to catch his breath as a shadowy figure blotted out the view beyond his visor. A crunch and a wrenching sound followed, warning signals firing up and dying in seconds as the mask of his helmet was torn away. The long muzzle of a rifle was pressed into his face, the looming figure clearing and turning into one of the insurgents, blood at his temple and his eyes firing with deep rage. Calculating the chances of him being able to knock him down with a repulsor before the guy could fire the shot, a bellowing shout cut through the air.

"Hey!"

Snapping his head up, Tony watched as Barnes twisted back, snapping his wrist lightning fast and releasing the shield, tossed as expertly as when Rogers was its bearer. However, it sprang away with a slight curve, immobilizing the grunt above him with a sharp blow to the spine. When it rebounded, Barnes was already rushing forward, launching himself up and catching the shield just as his leg extended. Guessing his aim, Tony shot up then, propelling himself out of the danger as Barnes dealt a smashing blow to the guy's cranium with the broadside of the shield. With the guy down for the count, the darker-suited Captain America took a deep breath, looking up at his teammate and gesturing to him with his free hand.

"You good?" he asked, maintaining eye contact as the Iron Man touched back down onto the ground. About to nod, the sensors in Tony's helmet began to chime. Another fellow appeared from behind the overturned truck, taking a flying leap with the machine gun he'd stolen from a fallen grunt. Hearing the screams, Bucky turned in time to see him coming down, and braced himself for the attack. It was a pointless endeavor, since the tech genius raised his gauntlet and fired off a repulsor, hitting the guy square in the gut and knocking him down to the ground right at Barnes' feet.

"Dunno. Are you?" Stark responded, lowering his hand and turning in time to catch Barnes' rolling eyes. Flashing lights and roaring sirens began to shriek then, the anticipated cavalry finally arriving. T'Challa had put the national guard in the city on alert, telling the commanding officers that he anticipated an outside attack in the coming days. When shown the intelligence that been received, they'd agreed to wait until the first move had been made. Once the blockade and the swarm of insurgents on the streets appeared, the guard had been pushing through it, attempting to meet with the summoned Avengers as they had been instructed. More shouts and rattling pops of gunfire blistered the night air, multiple languages flying between all involved.

Barnes and Stark looked to one another, and then over to Chapman and Guerrero. All four seemed to inhale deeply, with Bucky giving the last cry to move out before leaping forward. It was past time to end the oversized brawl, and they would see it done.

 **xXxXxXx**

Fifteen men, Klaue counted in his head. Fifteen men, and they were scattered on the ground like some many leaves from the trees. Rage and disgust bubbled in his stomach, flooded his veins. Fifteen men, and the Black Panther had thrown them all down into the metaphorical dust. Oh, for sure, he knew the black-suited man was a warrior, an expert combatant, but he had thought that his choices for the fight would be enough to stop him. Fifteen big, burly street fighters and weapons handlers from South Africa, bred in the heat and the sun, ripped apart and tossed to the sides.

The Black Panther had done that.

Though, it did seem like he was at least a little winded, if his rising and falling shoulders were any indication. Perhaps he could work that to his advantage. One-armed and in his later forties as he was, Klaue reckoned there was nothing for him to do but to take on the creature head-on. Breaking into a short jog, he fired off a single warning shot, the Panther ducking and rolling along the ground to avoid it. The pistol was dropped, the older man rushing him with a holler. His fast punch was blocked, the Panther sweeping a leg out to catch him off guard. Falling hard to his knees, Klaue had to shift and roll over his own fallen compatriots to avoid the sharpened talons of his opponent. Kicks and jabs were exchanged, a forearm bracing across his chest and driving him into the far wall.

Claws tore into his outer layers, shredding them as they came into contact. However, they scratched and rebounded off of what was beneath. The white lenses of the suit contracted as he stumbled back, indicated that he was staring at the new development. Smirking widely, Klaue shucked off the last pieces of his over-shirt, revealing the armor below. He may have been missing a limb, but he was by no means unprotected. Gleaming plates of vibranium connected over his chest, down his back and his legs, settled atop a body suit of microfiber and weave similar to that of his foe's. Flapping his hand at it, he raised an eyebrow and started to circle.

"Like this? Took awhile to figure out how to work the metal, but once you get it right, it works well," he explained, smiling broadly as the Panther's gait stiffened, his own circling tighter as he moved. Reminding him of the stolen goods might not have been the best choice, but Klaue was beyond regret. Though Ultron had taken a vast majority of the vibranium he'd obtained, he had endeavored to keep some for himself, specs and payment wired from the prison to a specialist. It had taken a fair chunk of the money he had left to his name, but the armor he produced was worth the cost. Even more so when he came to collect, and the guy only received a far more...permanent payment, in lead. Patting the chest plate, he snickered at the slight vibration absorbing into it. "Worth millions, but it's worth even more now."

"Armor is no replacement for what is truly needed in battle, and you know it," the Panther shot back, claws flexing as he moved. Klaue tipped his head to the right, lifting a shoulder.

"Maybe, but it damn well helps."

The lenses narrowed again, but the older man refused to waste any more time. What happened between the two men was more akin to barroom brawl than anything resembling a well-wrought fight. Hindered with the missing limb, Klaue gave as good as he got, his lower body strength superior, sweeping kicks and knee jerks barreling into his foe. The Panther would not be shoved down, would not allow him too much room to do so, but he'd endured a heavy barrage of hand-to-hand combat prior, his strength beginning to weaken.

Which Klaue took the opportunity to exploit. Arms locked around him, but his knee was perfectly placed to drive up into the Panther's stomach. It did not completely drive the air from his lungs, but it was enough to make him stumble back, the older man pressing forward and kicking out the back of his knee when he was released. Onto the ground he went, with Klaue's weight dropped fully onto his back to pin him to the floor. Grunts and growls rattled around them, the struggle to escape not letting up in the slightest. Still, the older man held his stance, bracing along him and digging in at key pressure points to hold him there.

"Just the first, not the last," he gasped heavily, knee digging harder into the Panther's back and his stump pressing into his neck. He was making him a promise, and he would not allow him to forget it. Legs kicked out, claws tried to swipe and scratch, but he did have the man at a disadvantage, and he would seize upon it. Snatching up the pistol that he'd abandoned earlier, he used his free fingers to jerk up the edge of the mask. The neck piece of it rolled fluidly up, exposing the dark skin of his opponent, the vulnerable flesh. Breathing out a chuckle, the barrel of the pistol dug in, the man beneath him freezing as he clicked back the hammer. "Same with you. Not the last, but there's no more you, at least."

One shot, one bullet, and he could have everything. Starting with freedom from this blasted fellow.

"Panther!" a voice hollered at the end of the hall. Whipping his head around, Klaue watched as the young woman from before strode forward, her black braid bobbing as she made her way forward. As she raised a hand, the older man grunted audibly.

"Oh, bloody—" he moaned, cutting himself off by straightening up and raising his pistol up at her. A flick of her wrist came, and he doubled over, his brain feeling like it had endured a tumble dry in a matter of nanoseconds. Trying to clear his gaze, catch his breath, he snarled aloud, ready to scream obscenities at both the interloper and the devil that had beguiled him for years. However, his chosen words were silenced, a sharp fist cutting up and smashing into his jaw. Staggered, he fell to the floor, the swirl of the overhead lights fading into darkness as a second punch connected with his temple.

"Not the last," the Black Panther hissed, uncurling his fist and relaxing in his posture. Looking over to Synapse, he watched as she shot a look to the crumpled man on the floor. Her timing was fortunate; if the outside battle had not finished mere moments beforehand...well. It was speculation at that point, speculation that he could not afford to indulge in. Shaking his head silently, he crouched down, allowing her to assist him in slinging the ex-arms dealer over his shoulder and taking him out of the arsenal laboratory hall. It was the closest he would ever come to his prize. It would be his last.

 **xXxXxXx**

The stars above the city, unseen due to the light pollution spun on, heralding the approach of day just hours away. The felled insurgents on the streets of Birnin Zana were rounded up, zip-tied and cuffed, and preparing to be deployed to the nearest prisons for processing in. From the arsenal building had come the Black Panther, aided by Synapse as they braced an unconscious Ulysses Klaue between them. The national guard had come forward, a specially-designed cuff attached to the man's body and his single arm to restrain him. Bundling him into an SUV bearing the seal of Wakanda, the guard spoke in rapid, hushed tones with the Panther, allaying any concerns that could be had over the hired hands being duly charged for their crimes. Klaue would not be among them; instead, a special transfer was to take place, a call made out to NATO's forces for a border pick-up within the next day or two. When he'd finished with those assurances, the Panther, strode away, meeting with the summoned Avengers where they had gathered: the back alley alongside the arsenal.

Fully taking off his damaged helmet, Tony Stark nodded to the flashing lights and the milling soldiers taking stock of their capture.

"I'll say this for insulation: don't have to worry about the world press showing up on your doorstep," he remarked, his fellows sharing in ragged grins and weak chuckles at that. For the king of the insular country in question, it was enough that merely nodded.

"No, instead I have to be concerned about the U.N. making inquiries into your presence here. And why I'm delivering an escaped arms dealer to NATO on a platter," T'Challa replied, removing his own helmet and taking in deep breaths. He was allowing his limits as a man bleed through the facade of the Panther, dashing away the droplets of sweat on his brow deftly with the back of his hand.

Chapman snorted at that, shaking his head as he freed himself from his own disguise. "So new?"

Another ring of wan smiles came to their lips, Emily's half mask revealing hers and Bucky allowing his to reach his eyes as he drew back the cowl. T'Challa met their gazes with a warm look, though it was quickly replaced by seriousness.

"Gentlemen, Miss Guerrero...you do understand that what you saw here, what you've experienced...it cannot be told," he murmured, nodding out as well. However, his nod was meant to encompass the entirety of the city, of the people there and the things they'd seen on the streets. Though he had been the one to call for aid, he had to know that these Avengers, his teammates, would not expose his country unnecessarily. Silent looks were darted among them, and the new Captain America cleared his throat.

"Your Highness, you know that we will keep whatever secrets need keeping," Barnes vowed, sharing a fast glance with his fellows. Blowing out a short breath, he recalled what T'Challa had confessed to them about Klaue, the threats he'd imparted. To him, they sounded more like a promise, and he could not allow it to be ignored. "But...and I hate to say it, what you said Klaue told you...it's not wrong. Your smokescreen will only last so long, especially with the day and age we live in."

"More will be coming, even harder than they have before," Emily chimed in, understanding the lay of the land as easily as he did. Her gaze held compassion as she looked to the young monarch, intoning softly, "You can only fight on your own for so long until someone breaks through."

T'Challa's lips thinned as his posture straightened, his bearing at once imposing and unyielding.

"When someone does, I will still fight. This is my country, these are my people," he said, a slight emphasis on the words as he tipped his palm out. "We have survived this far."

"Yes. But that's not a guarantee that you'll go much farther," Bucky pointed out softly. He hadn't meant to really rile anybody else up, least of all a team member and a king. However, it would have been a mistake to just let the matter lie, and he was not keen on making any greater mistakes those days. If he could help it. Holding up a placating palm, he continued, "Just...be careful."

"Besides, you have our numbers, should things get worse," Stark put in then, entirely earnest despite the flash of humor in his expression.

T'Challa gave him a weary smile, and sighed. He could recognize the warning he'd been given, from them and from one of his enemies, and take it into account. To disregard such things would be foolish, and doubly so for a monarch looking to do well by his people. Thanking them all once more for their aid, he gestured for them to follow him. The king had invited them to stay, to rest and recuperate before heading back, but they all politely declined. Tony and Bucky had cited an immediate need to return to the States and to their duties, Chapman and Emily maintaining the same (though Joe was inclined to add that he owed a special lady for an interrupted date, which had the other men raising eyebrows curiously and Guerrero shaking her head). Their things were bundled up, and all were on their respective jets home within a few hours. However, they had left with T'Challa's express invitation to return, should they desire to do so in the future.

"Fury's gonna be eager for answers," Stark speculated when they'd been in the air for some time, back on their own quinjet and charting a course for home. Barnes sat down on the bench across from him, scrubbing a hand over his face before shooting him a wry look.

"He already has them," he pointed out. After all, for Fury to have achieved enlisting the Black Panther even as a reserve member for the Avengers, he had to imagine there was a trade-off. The older man had merited an invitation at the behest of King T'Chaka when it was first broached, he'd discovered in the mission prep files; it was unlikely he'd ask about things he already carried knowledge of. Shaking his head, he leaned back against the wall, huffing out a breath. "I'm not worried about him. I'm worried about Natasha. She's gonna be pissed that I made it across the border and can't tell her anything about it."

To his surprise, Tony barked out a laugh at that, his dark eyes glimmering in the low light.

"Yeah, I bet she will be," he retorted, raking a hand back through his cropped hair. Spiking an eyebrow, he wondered, "Got a distraction strategy?"

Barnes closed his eyes, huffing out a self-derisive laugh.

"Yeah. It's called, 'telling her the truth.'" Opening his eyes, he tilted his head down in time to watch as Stark snorted and shook his head. The corner of his mouth curved, and he lifted a shoulder. "It's revolutionary, I know, but it seems to work with her."

An outright chortle erupted from the tech genius, and the corner of his mouth curved higher.

"She's a spy, Stark; if I lied, she'd find another way to get her answers."

At that, Tony shot him a knowing glance, canting his head. "Fair point."

"Plus, I just got off her shit list. Not too keen on jumping right back onto that," Bucky said, letting the information slip purposefully. Granted, it had been some time since the mission over Valentine's Day that cost them time away with each other (though it was something Steve greatly appreciated being given to him and his wife), but it had taken a few days for Natasha to even begin to warm up to the idea of getting off his case. Personal efforts as well had gone a long way to help, and he did not care to repeat the experience so soon. Stark laughed again, something close to a real smile on his lips as he did so.

The chiming alert of an incoming video call sounded through the cabin, and Bucky got out of his seat, meandering over to the screen and accepting the call. Stark stayed behind, his own handheld withdrawn and him staring intently at it as Steve's face flooded the screen. Giving his preliminary report, the blond man inquired after the others, after their health and T'Challa's personal well-being. After assuring him that they were all fine, more or less, both friends seemed to relax in their seats. The major threat was eliminated, the team members involved were safe, and on their way to their homes. It was good all around, in their books. Even if the mission itself did eclipse other things in their lives.

"Nothing says 'happy birthday' quite like this, huh?" Steve remarked sardonically, and the brunet man gave a scoffing chuckle.

"Given how a good portion of them have gone in the past, this ain't so bad," he retorted, choosing that moment to sign off with the commander. One final admonishment to make sure his mission report was ready by the afternoon following their return was dealt, Steve's voice compounded by the shrill shriek of a baby. Bucky hid a smile as a feminine voice followed, a couple of shushing sounds emitted from her; evidently Holly had come to fetch him home, little Grant in tow and crooning low. The other man turned his head away from the camera, focusing toward where the door of his office would be, and the muted joy in his irises was impossible to miss. Saying good-bye, Bucky left him to it, shutting down the call and blowing out a slow breath. Getting up from his seat, he wandered back to the bench he'd occupied earlier, sitting slowly as the other man eyed him warily.

"Birthday, huh?" Stark remarked, affecting nonchalance after a few quiet moments. The tightness in his shoulders, however, was impossible to miss. Coughing once, Bucky picked at the outer seam of his jeans, metal fingers clicking softly in the darkness.

"Yep," he replied, directing his gaze down onto his boots. "My...technically, it's my 100th today."

One hundred years old, by technicality, he mused. It still boggled his mind, knowing that it was a different century, a different world, and he was part of it, shaped it to some degree—even if that last part made him sick to contemplate it at times. He could have imagined he'd ever live to see the day. Hell, he barely imagined living past fifty when he merely the sergeant, just Bucky from Brooklyn. Well, he'd done it, done and lived what felt like a thousand different lives between the two points. His hand, the metal one, curled in, the gleam of the metal stopped at the wrist due to the long-sleeved tee he sported. Different lives, same face, he muttered inwardly, his flesh hand scrubbing at the scruff along his jaw and back through the hair that was lengthening again.

Across from him, he could see Tony's eyes glaze over, the lines in his brow and his face deepening as he stared at a point away and to the right of him. His fingers twisted and picked at one another, invisible dirt picked off the cuticles as his jaw ticked. Clearing his throat once, twice, the dark irises connected with the brighter ones briefly. A hot sear of pain streaked over them, making Barnes flinch, and he focused on the floor.

"Dad's would've been this coming August," the billionaire mumbled, half in sorrow and half in wonderment. It was Bucky's turn to swallow with difficulty, all previous calm and joviality drained away. It was true, though; Howard Stark would have crested over one hundred that year, as well. If he hadn't, if Bucky hadn't...he closed his eyes, trying to force the guilt and the horror that stilled lived in his soul down. Breathe in, breathe out, he reminded himself, his therapist's voice coming to the front of his mind. If he would not lay down his burden, he could at least remind himself that it was not of his making. As himself, he would never have hurt all the people he had; he never would have murdered the Starks. It wasn't him, as himself, and that it was not his choice.

It was hard, keeping that thought inside and holding onto it.

"I know," he nearly whispered back, unable to offer anything more than that. Silence descended upon the pair, the beeps of the consoles at hand and the distant thrum of the quinjet's engines bleeding into the space. Suddenly, the tech genius was on his feet, weaving away from the benches and over to the storage area in the left wing. His previous hardness and sorrow were shoved down as he moved, and he refused to give into them again.

"Well, after all that, and with it being a birthday..." his voice called back, the whirs and clicks of gears grinding in the air accompanying it. Bucky's brows snapped together as he waited, curious as to what the other fellow was doing. In less than a minute, Stark returned, a large flask in hand and a growing smirk on his face. Going to the center seating console, he tapped at the interface, the top portion opening up and raising two open, metal cylinders. They were roughly the size of low-ball glasses, and Barnes couldn't help but snort.

"You have booze in the suit?" he queried, shooting a significant glance at the flask. Stark did not seem perturbed in the least, shrugging his shoulders as he twisted off the cap and began pouring out the beverage.

"I have a lot of things hidden in the suit," he stated, the simplicity of the word belying the very real truth underneath. Glancing over at the ex-assassin, the new Captain America, he let a single eyebrow spike slowly, knowing his meaning would not be mistaken. Barnes blinked, a careful nod dipping his chin.

"Noted."

With the message sent and received, Stark closed up the flask, tucking into the back pocket of his jeans as best he could before fetching up the cups. Bringing himself back to the benches, he held one out to Bucky, the metal clink of the cups resounding when he tapped his against it.

"Allies," he murmured, meeting Bucky's eye-line and raising the cup to his lips. The smooth coat and burn of the whiskey moved over his tongue and down his throat, the effects of it dulled by time and tolerance. Like so many other things, he noted wryly to himself. If he let them go that way.

Barnes raised his cup as well, the curve of his lips tentative as he swallowed down the alcohol.

"Allies," the new captain repeated, the two sharing in a silent nod before the tech genius sat himself down on the opposite bench. Over the course of the next hour, they passed the flask back and forth, refilling their cups and saying very little.

When all was said and done, Bucky did not think it the worst way to celebrate a birthday.

* * *

 **A/N:** And that's part two! Got some action up in here...Like I mentioned very briefly in the last author's note, I wanted to touch a bit of the Black Panther stuff, since that always will be finding its way into the continuity very soon. And since I will not be doing a separate fic on that, I tried my best here (like with Homecoming and Ragnarok). Sorry if the action sequences sucked; I really am trying to get better at them, truly!

And just for the record: Bucky and Tony are by no means friends. I honestly think the closest they will ever get to it is being teammates and acquaintances. Sometimes bitter acquaintances, but I don't think Tony would allow it to become more, and Bucky wouldn't push for it. The hurt is too deep, and while Tony can see that Bucky was forced through manipulation to do unspeakable acts to his family, that's incredibly difficult for one to just forgive and walk away. Even if he did come clean about it personally (in this universe). However, I think I have shown that they can at least work together and find a sort of equilibrium without somebody having to be a buffer between them now. Progress, eh?

Bucky turns 100, dating the last two chapters taking place from March 7th—March 10th, roughly. (And the Marvel Wiki does state that Howard Stark's birthday was in August, 1917.)

Very little Steve and no Holly or Grant this time around, save by mention, but they'll be back, no worries.

I don't own anything from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	20. Chapter 20

The cell phone on the kitchen island rattled, the vibrations set off by an incoming call. Holly, in between putting her breakfast plate in the sink and running down her to-do list in her head, furrowed her brow as she heard it. Casting a glance to her husband, his own curiosity lighting his irises as he fed their son his breakfast, she went to answer the call. It was one thing for him to receive calls at all hours; it was another for her to get one early in the morning. Looking at the caller ID on the screen, her eyebrows quirked as she accepted the call and greeted the person on the other end. From his spot, Steve kept an eye on her as she moved in his peripherals, attending to Grant as he played more with his breakfast than ate it. Bonnie was milling about under the chair and the table, ever-hopeful in retrieving some form of scraps, an indulgence rarely given and all the more prized when they did happen. The corgi let out a little yip and pawed at the legs of her master, bounding off to her own food dish with a doggy huff. Holly's attention remained on the call, which her husband noted silently. She'd turned her back to him for a second or two, her shoulders tensing after giving her greeting, and they hadn't relaxed in the seconds that followed.

"Shit," she muttered suddenly, low enough that Steve could barely hear it. A fast look was shot over her shoulder to him, and he frowned slightly when she braced a hand along the counter top, her expression creasing into something between sympathy and discomfort. Sincerity, however, laced her tone as she spoke to the other person again. "No, no, I understand. Of course, you take some time. We'll figure something out. Thank you. Get some rest."

Tapping her thumb against the screen and ending the call, Holly blew out a deep breath, clicking her tongue before dropping the phone onto the counter again. Steve cleared his throat, drawing her attention out of her private musings.

"Doll?" he asked, flicking his gaze over the dropped device in question. His wife exhaled sharply again, leaning against the counter and resting her elbows.

"Bad news, hon. Jan's sick," she relayed, fingers tapping idly along the counter top. Glancing up, she nodded at her husband's concerned expression. "She's got that nasty cold that's going around and has to shut down the daycare for the next few days."

He dipped his chin; he recalled that several of the children at the daycare had been in and out over the last few days, per Jan's observations. Though the season for illness was technically past, it was making a final sweep as spring took hold. That April, the kids were coming sporadically, in various states of wellness. Grant himself had not really suffered from it—a few sniffles at the beginning of the month had occurred, but that was over relatively swiftly—but it was only a matter of time before it affected someone other than the children.

"That is too bad," he said, brow furrowing even further as his gaze slid to the baby still perched in the high chair. The little guy, oblivious to the wrench being thrown into the plans for the day, slapped the tiny spoon his father had let him have against the oatmeal in the bowl before him, giggling madly when it stuck. Shaking his head at his son's antics, Steve wondered, "What are we going to do about Grant?"

That was the very question Holly had been considering for that last couple of minutes. What could they do in regards to their son? Tucking back the strands of her loose hair, she stood up straight, coming around the kitchen island, she flicked a few fingers in the air.

"Looks like we're going to have to take some days off," she stated plainly. They had few options at their disposal for those occurrences, few though they had been thus far. Their closest friends had less opening in their schedules than they did, and unfortunately, her family lived too far away to be of any aid. Shaking her head, she continued, "My department head is kind of a hardass as it is; I can only imagine how he'd react if I brought our baby in for a day."

The commander's frown deepened. Her coworkers were all well enough, and her immediate supervisor was a sweet woman—if quite brash at times—but the overall head of archives was nosy, irritating man. His life seemed to revolve around the archives, and he really did not like it when others in the department did not behave the same way. Granted, there wasn't much he could do about personality differences, since he was entirely outnumbered, but he wasn't exactly a pleasant guy. No, bringing in the baby would never do, not with that fellow in charge.

"Want me to get Maria to work him over?" he offered corner of his mouth lifting to indicate he was (at least partially) kidding. "I could do that."

His wife smirked at that, licking her lips and clicking her tongue again.

"As much as my other coworkers would probably appreciate it, no. Favoritism is written all over that, and I have enough trouble staying in their good graces as it is."

Her statement, though given nonchalantly, had him blinking in surprise.

"You haven't said anything before," he breathed, picking up the wet washcloth that accompanied Grant's feedings and cleaning his face as best he could.

"It isn't as bad as I am making it out to be," she said, lifting her head and brushing off the previous statement. Catching the wince he gave her, she shrugged. "Not everybody likes me, Steve. And not everybody likes who I married." At that he looked up, a little taken aback by the bluntness. However, she wasn't about to spare him; she'd heard the whispers once too often herself, and each time her fuse grew a bit shorter. She disliked being insulted, and she disliked it even more when her husband's integrity was called into question. Forcing her thoughts onto the lighter parts of the inner departmental disputes, she snickered. "Trust me; you want to talk about divided camps? Ask some of the agents who the best one of you guys is. You'd have an office war on your hands in no time."

The little frisson of hurt in his irises seemed to dissipate then, and he snorted.

"No kidding? Hmm," he noted, leaning over and scooping some splattered oatmeal off Grant's face with his spoon. Sending her a sly, sideways glance, he posited, "And what camp do you fall in, sweetheart?"

"Oh, I'm Team Quicksilver, of course," she responded, a wink punctuating her cheeky statement. A bark of laughter shot out of him then, his head shaking. Coming over to him, she reached out and cupped his cheek. Softening the teasing tone, she murmured, "Although the commander just does something for me."

"Really? Good to know," he remarked softly, playfulness lighting his irises as she came closer and pecked the corner of his mouth. Shifting in his seat as she drew away, he coughed once. "Back to the issue at hand. Days off, taking care of Grant. Who should do it first?"

Holly hummed under her breath, taking a seat on the other side of the table and glancing at the clock on the wall as she reviewed their options once more.

"I could take a sick day today, haven't had to yet this year," she stated, curling her fingers around the end of her sleeve. Her eyebrows inclined as she asked, "You have meetings this morning, right?"

Steve dipped his chin with a sigh. He had to conference with Nick and Coulson, Chapman taking part as well, and they had to speak about better coordinating efforts between the multiple agent teams working around the globe. It was something that couldn't be put off, not again.

"Yes. I also have training and team debriefing to go over with the others, and Bucky has some reports that I need him to clarify."

Holly barely bit back a giggle at his small frown.

"The Barnes Chicken Scratch hasn't improved then?" she joked, and off the deadpan expression he sported, she chuckled out loud. Lifting a shoulder, she confessed, "I've only got a few transcripts to record in the system and file on the docket. It can wait a day. Yeah, I'll take today if you can do it tomorrow."

Steve gave her a half-smile, holding out his free hand across the table. "Deal."

The bargain struck, Holly put her hand in his, shaking it like they'd completed a major company merger. The concern that had been sitting heavily in her stomach lessened significantly, and she fetched up her phone again, swiftly dialing in the number to get in contact with her supervisor. Melanie clucked in sympathy when she expressed needing the time away, sick leave granted easily enough. With Grant finishing his breakfast (all of it consumed, despite his wish to play with it first), Steve cleaned him up and set out one of his ring toys on the tray of the chair, taking the opportunity to ready himself for work. His favored navy jacket had come to hand, as well as his shield and keys, not much else needed for the day. As Holly returned from changing into more comfortable clothing for the day (Bonnie following her up and nosing at her curiously, as she was used to having the run of the house at that hour by that point), he released his boy from the seatbelt of the high chair, bringing him up so that they could look at one another face to face.

"Bye, buddy. Be a good boy for Mommy, alright?" Steve told Grant, nodding exaggeratedly so the little guy kept his eyes on him. When he dipped his chin, little hands reached up, the baby palming his cheeks and humming softly as his small nails dug a bit into the skin. Snickering, the father leaned forward and planted a peck into his son's hair, grinning as he passed him into Holly's hold. He tipped her chin up, a kiss given to her as well before he stepped back and picked up his keys and shield. "Bye, doll."

"Bye," she returned, lifting up their boy's hand and prompting him to wave as Steve meandered closer to the back door. Soon enough, little fingers were flapping and curling, a big smile on Grant's face. It was matched by her husband's, chuckling and waving back. Patting their boy on the back, she giggled and raised her voice in farewell for the little one. "Bye-bye, Daddy."

"Da!" Grant concurred, fingers curling harder in the air as he looked at his father, his own good-byes being commuted that way. He'd been speaking more and more often, actually forming a couple of simple words those days, and it always brought him joy when his parents confirmed how well he was doing. Steve's smiled broadened then, and he waved back as he went out the door. At the click of the lock, Bonnie barked from upstairs, but she didn't come barreling down to see her master off—too content in her little bed, Holly muttered inwardly with a grin. Glancing around the house, she felt herself start to relax slightly. It had been quite some time since she'd been home alone with the baby, the early days of his infancy roaring back to her for a few seconds. However, instead of feeling an overwhelming sense of uncertainty, she straightened her spine and dipped her chin. She had done this before, would likely do it again, and it did not frighten her.

Grant hummed aloud then, patting his hands on his mother's shoulders and giving her a gummy half-grin. The resemblance to his father was great in that moment, and she could not help but sigh wistfully, picturing the young man her baby boy would grow up to become. Shaking the thought away (he was still her baby, and she would rather treasure that time while she had it), she grinned, giving him a smacking kiss on the cheek before bringing him to his playpen and going back into the kitchen to clean up.

That duty was finished in short order, since all that was had for the morning meal was cereal, the dishwasher chugging away as the load was finally filled. With her day opened up in that fashion, she went back to her baby boy, bringing him out of his playpen and onto the floor. Patty cake and peek-a-boo occupied much of their time that morning, the little guy absolutely delighted to be in his mother's care. Tiny scratches clicked against the front door, alerting Holly to Bonnie's immediate needs. Reckoning that she could get far more out of the deal for all of them, she rose, grabbing jackets for herself and Grant as well as the baby carrier. Once the little dog was strapped into her harness and the leash attached, she slid her baby into the carrier, setting the alarms for the house and instructing JJ to keep monitoring their journey via her cell phone as they set off for a walk. Down the driveway they went, the gravel beneath her feet crunching as the trio made it to the end of the run. Turning right, she let Bonnie extend to the end of the leash, her little legs trotting and her fluffy body almost vibrating with happiness. Generally, the little dog was taken out for a walk daily, but usually only with one of her humans in attendance. It was a task Steve often took up, sometimes bringing her along in the mornings for a short run (a jogging walk, really, since her stride couldn't keep up with his), but it seemed good for Holly to take her, and bring Grant along.

Inhaling deeply, the young woman enjoyed the stretch of her legs, the cool breeze as it wafted through the budding trees. Living that far into the woods, she had developed a deep appreciation for the quiet and the calm it seemed to exude. Very few cars passed by on the road, but the ones who did at least gave them a wide berth when she directed all into the ditch. She glanced down at the baby strapped into the carrier on her chest, his wide eyes taking in the browns and greens of the awakening earth. Unlike her and her husband, Grant would be a country kid, and the thought amused and intrigued her.

With the trees growing and coming back to life, some were still shedding the final, worn leaves of the year before, some drifting down around them as they walked. One such leaf fluttered down, brushing past the end of her nose and making her wrinkle it at the weird sensation. It fell directly into Grant's hands, the baby's gaze glittering in wonder. Curling his fingers around it, he cooed at the crunch it made in his hands, before looking up at her and flapping it around wildly. Holly laughed at his excitement, cupping his back with her free hand as he brought the leaf between them again.

"Yes, I see the leaf, it's pretty. Well, pretty brown, but still," she told him, answering his happy squawks with a wide grin. At once, he lifted it towards his face, his practice of taking every new thing he could grab and shoving it into his mouth about to be acted up. Swiftly, Holly's free fingers hooked around his little wrist, stopping him easily. "No, not in your mouth, yucky."

Able to recognize the word 'no' at his age, Grant frowned a little, his tiny brow furrowing as he stared up at his mother. Forbidden from eating it himself, he glanced down at it one more time before bringing it up to her lips. Holly spluttered, jerking to a stop in the walk as she tried to lean away from her son's insistent pressing.

"Not in my mouth, either!"

The leaf finally crumpled into irretrievable shards, unable to be eaten by either.

"Uck," the baby pronounced carefully, his fun had and his fingers now curling into the straps of the carrier. A pleased smile graced his lips, and his mother was a little surprised by the level of smugness her son exuded in that moment. Holly rolled her eyes, snickering to herself as she shook her head and started to walk again.

"Silly boy."

The walk last a little while longer, the young woman turning them all around when she spotted the little dog starting to stumble a bit in her steps. Bonnie could have a lot of energy, but she seemed to have exerted in the walk and rocketing around the house that morning after she and Steve had woken up. Back to the house they went, and once inside, the corgi gave her face a friendly lick when she freed her from the harness, little legs carrying her off upstairs to nap off the exercise. With the time at her disposal, Holly ran over the list she had compiled in her head after breakfast, realizing that since she had the day off of work, she could get ahead on the chores. Laundry needed to be done, yet again (would it ever end, she wondered as she fetched up the baskets from each room), among other things, and she took the chance to get started when she got Grant down for a nap. By the time he was up again, the master bathroom had been tidied, the office set to rights, and the laundry had just finished its final load in the dryer. Getting some lunch into her boy—and distracting Bonnie with tennis ball tosses in between feeding him bites—Holly brought all into the living room, three filled baskets set up on the floor along with a blanket for her baby to play on beside her. However, the little scamp refused to stay there, instead crawling around and grabbing the basket edges, pulling all over and practically diving into the clean loads of clothes as he did so. The first couple of times he disrupted the chore, she'd giggled, calling him silly and pulling him away. When it was repeated more and more often, it stopped being adorable. Scrubbing a hand over her brow as Grant upended yet another pile she'd gotten folded, she groaned.

"Okay, I know the laundry is fascinating, bud, but you're not exactly the best folding pal," she said to Grant, exasperation worming its way into her voice. As the baby merely laughed and rolled into the nearby pile of folded towels, flapping around and delighting in them, she blew out a short breath. Enough was enough; the chore needed to be done, and he was not helping. Setting down the t-shirt she'd had in hand, she pulled the towels off her son and picked him up. "Playpen it is, then."

Indignant crows echoed around them as she carried him across the room and set him down in it, but he was appeased when she gave him several of his favorite toys to play with. Gnawing on the plastic horse figure that his Auntie Nat had gifted to him a few weeks back, Grant settled in as his mother plodded back over to the strewn contents of the laundry. A thought popped into her head as the towels were folded and stacked once more, of how what she was doing was so domestic, and how her actions could misconstrued as a throwback to the past. Women staying home, doing the housework and waiting for husbands to come home...the cliché of it all smacked her a bit, and she cringed inwardly, knowing how it could be perceived.

Glancing over to her son, on his back in the playpen and staring at the ceiling while his plastic key ring was waggled and his legs kicked, she sighed audibly.

"Not a fifties housewife, just a woman who needed to stay home and care for her son," she reminded herself aloud. She wasn't falling prey to stereotypes; she was doing what needed to be done for them all to get through the day. Clearing her throat, she snickered ruefully as Grant pulled himself up onto his knees, his eyes meeting hers for a moment across the room. "You don't think Mommy is that way, do you?"

The little guy's head cocked to the left, fingers shoved into his mouth and little hums coming out of him. The stiffness in her posture lessened, and she grinned as she seized one of Steve's shirts, starting to fold again.

"No, you're just happy to be home and not have to ride in the car," she declared for him, the remainder of the chore done in relative peace. Bonnie would canter in every few moments, but all it took was playing a few minutes of tug-of-war before she would meander off again, surveying her kingdom as the lady of the house termed it. Fetching her laptop from the office upstairs, Holly took a moment to check her emails. A couple had come in from Todd and Melanie, each saying of how they wanted to meet up sometime during the next day and discuss the recent archival projects they'd been working on and what next to take up in the coming months. A few messages had been sent by her mom and sister over social media, funny parental memes that made her chuckle and like them with the click of the mouse. Sarah had also sent a message, stating how well the new studio was thriving in Annapolis, and Aaron officially being accepted for the grad school program for the next semester. Pleased with all that, Holly took it in stride when an email from her literary agent, forwarded from the publisher of her novel, had popped up. Opening it, her smile slid away briefly, blinking rapidly at the contents. Once it registered, the grin returned full force, and she was hard-pressed not to whoop in celebration.

The sales for her novel had exceeded expectations, it said, and if she were up for it, the publishers would greatly appreciate her writing a sequel to her work. It was a probability she was unsure would ever come her way. Despite that, she'd remained in hope, chiseling away at a word document containing continuation ideas for the last several months. Now, it seemed, they were ready for it. Beaming broadly, she glanced across the living room to the little guy, wanting to share the news with somebody.

"Mommy's hitting the big time, sweetie. Know what that means?" she asked her little boy. When Grant giggled and chirped at her, she nodded succinctly. "Yep, we're gonna get take-out. Looks like you're getting a car ride today, after all."

Once she'd returned the email, telling the literary agent to see about getting a look at the contract the publishing house would draft for a sequel, she sped around the house, putting away the clothes and situating the dog with food and water before plucking up the baby. The car ride into town was filled with whines and whimpers, but Grant settled down once he was given some juice and let the car's motions rock him to sleep. It was well after five o'clock before they returned to the house, dinner in containers and a few extra groceries purchased as well. Pulling into the garage, Holly was happily surprised to see that the truck was already parked there, her husband's presence confirmed when they entered the house and heard Steve's light snoring coming from the living room. Purposefully, she stepped down hard, alerting him to their return that way. Snuffles and a gasp resounded, and she had to stifle a giggle when he finally got up and came into the kitchen.

"Got home early, and you weren't here," Steve said when he saw them, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes and grinning tiredly. Holly nodded at that, situating Grant higher on her hip as she set down the plastic bags of food on the island.

"We went on a little scavenging trip. Got some stuff from the diner in town."

"Oh, nice," Steve crooned, genuine pleasure in his voice. Quirking up a brow, he wondered, "What's the occasion?"

"Besides not wanting to cook?" Holly teased, the edge to her smile giving way to quiet joy as she shrugged a shoulder. Bouncing Grant a little in her arms, she made her way over to her husband, her happy grin from earlier returning as she looked up at him. "I got an email from the publishing house. Sales have been doing well for my book. Well enough that they, um, want me to write a sequel."

Bright eyes went even wider in joy, and Steve pulled both her and the baby into his arms. "That's great!"

"Yeah...I mean, that's always the hope, to get another chance, but it's not guaranteed," she stated, the run of enthusiasm she'd been holding back on flowing forth. Tipping her head back towards the take-out, she affirmed, "So, loaded burgers and pie for us tonight!"

Almost as if on cue, Steve's stomach rumbled at the pronouncement, and he grinned sheepishly. Casting a glance downward to the little dog pawing at both their feet, he tutted in mock sympathy.

"Sorry, Bon. I don't think table scraps are going to be an option for you tonight." Shaking his head, the blond man focused on the baby in his mother's arms, holding out his hands to him when he stepped back. Crowing in delight, Grant turned to his daddy, letting him scoop him up and cradle him close. "And how was the little guy? Were you a good boy for Mommy?"

"Ba-ba," Grant said, fingers shoved into his mouth straight after. Holly canted her head to the left, rubbing a hand along the little guy's back.

"Other than attempted leaf-eating and becoming a laundry monster, he's been...himself," she summed up, thinking that, all told, their day hadn't been bad in the least.

Steve spiked an eyebrow. "Good thing or a bad thing?"

She paused, pretending to give the matter deep thought and tapping a finger to her chin.

"When it comes to a Rogers kid...good, I think."

Her husband snorted at that, giving the little guy a peck on the check and taking him over to his high chair.

"Wait until he's a teenager."

"Uh, wait until he's four, more like," she replied, earning herself a mere shrug and a smirk as he buckled their boy in. Grinning back, she circled the island, taking the bags of take-out and assembling plates for them all. Not a housewife, but a wife and mother doing her best, she reminded herself, receiving an unknowing reward of a kiss from her husband as she sat down beside him and expounded upon the day.

 **xXxXxXx**

"My turn today," Holly announced the following morning, toting Grant on her hip as she went about picking up her things. Steve, seated in the armchair with the tablet and shooting off an email to Maria that he would not be in for the day, watched as she chattered to their son. He was still in his sleep pants and an old SHIELD t-shirt, taking an almost perverse pleasure in being less than kept at that moment. Picking up her work bag and kissing the baby's hair, Holly sauntered over to her husband, waiting until he set the device aside. A finger hooked at both her boys, and she commanded, "You two stay out of trouble, you hear?"

"Yes, Mother," Steve retorted in faux compliance, earning an eye roll for his efforts.

"Ugh, don't do that," she admonished him, giving a little shake of the shoulders at the title. Lifting up Grant once more, she gave him a kiss on the cheek before passing him into his father's arms. "Love you. And you."

The last was meant for Steve, receiving his own kiss from her then.

"Love you, too," he responded, bidding her one more farewell and lifting up Grant to watch his mother exit the house. When the growl of an engine and the crunch of car tires faded down the drive, Steve turned his son to face him, standing him up in his lap and looking at him seriously. " Well, it's just us men for the day, bud. What should we do?" Grant's little brow seemed to furrow in deep thought, and then his hands curled into the collar of his father's shirt, tugging hard. As he giggled in joy, Steve sighed and muttered, "Besides getting our mitts over everything?"

More tugs, and a sharper giggle, and then the father smirked down at his boy.

"We'll figure it out."

That declared, Steve took Bonnie out for her morning ablutions after swapping his sleep pants for jeans, putting her on the yard leash that could be staked into the ground and allow her to run around without much hindrance. The baby went with him, happy enough to crawl around in the grass and muck up his little jeans with stains. Knowing another wash was in the future, Steve changed his clothes once they returned to the house, scrubbing the little guy's hands clean in the sink before taking him back down to the living room. The corgi pranced around them, receiving her share of pats and hugs before he fetched up a spare sketchbook from the office, a cheap mechanical pencil in hand as well. Sitting Grant upright in his lap, he balanced the sketchbook atop his little legs, taking his right hand in his and placing the drawing implement in his fingers.

"Can you grab the pencil? We'll draw a pretty picture for Mommy for when she comes back," he told him, guiding the little guy's arm to rest along the page. Harsh scratches ran across the paper, his son's eyes no doubt wide with wonder and curiosity. Keeping the baby steady in his lap, Steve looked upon him for several long moments. Grant had grown so much over the last nine months, becoming far more substantial and solid in his grasp. His hair had lightened a bit, more of a sandy brown—quite unlike his father's blond or his mother's deep chestnut. His eyes, though, were nearly the same shade of blue as his daddy's, as his grandmother's, and he couldn't help but think about how this little Rogers would keep growing, keep becoming more. Deep down, he could only pray he would be there to see it happen. Clearing his throat, Steve continued to steady the little one's arm, his voice soft as he spoke again. "You know, daddies didn't used to do this, back when I was growing up. Or, at least, that's what I heard. Your grandma didn't have much of a choice in the matter, since Grandpa was gone, but other kids...their dads worked all the time. Like Uncle Bucky's old man."

Mr. Barnes did, at the time, fit into the typical expectations of a father. With five children to provide for, he consequently had to spend less and less time at home with them, the care of his children falling more onto his wife's shoulders. A memory flashed through Steve's mind, of the older man returning home from work one time when he'd slept over (his mom was on a late shift at the hospital, and he had a bad cold, so he had to go there). Deep tiredness wracked him, but the fellow's eyes lit up when his kids came clattering into the front room, his boys jostling for his attention and Rebecca pushing her way through them. He asked each and every one how they were, what they did that day. When he spotted Steve, curled up in the corner of the couch and sniffing hard, he plopped down beside him, asking after him as well before Mrs. Barnes handed him the paper. Though he was silent after hearing all his kids and Steve out, he still looked upon them all happily.

There was a distance in his eyes, then, Steve realized, a sadness that only ever abated when he was with his children.

"I think he really missed out, and knew it," he murmured aloud then, understanding dawning in that moment. Now, times had changed, and men were encouraged to bond and take up roles that were not considered traditional. That, Steve concluded inwardly, he could happily do, if it meant he would know his son and watch him grow, more a part of the picture. Grant's pleased babbles broke through his musings, and he looked down, focusing on the pad of paper as the little boy dragged the pencil around it. The corner of his mouth curved, and he chuckled inwardly. "Oh, that's real good, son. Your mom will love this blob."

Drawing completed, Steve signed it off for Grant and attached it to the fridge, held by a magnet of the Minneapolis skyline sent on by the in-laws. The rest of the morning passed in play, letting his little boy take his hands and attempt standing on his own, legs getting stronger with every try. When he tired of that, the little guy contentedly crawled along the floor, his daddy giving chase and pretending to be a great, big monster after him. The record player churned out pieces from the Glenn Miller album on deck, "Jeep Jockey Jump" swinging along as he caught his boy several times and tickled him into submission.

Being home definitely wasn't bad, he mused silently as he wrangled up the little guy and fed lunch after his morning nap. Definitely not bad at all. He thought, as he cleaned up Grant from the mix of mashed potatoes and peas he ingested, that the afternoon might run just as well. And it had started out that way, with the baby crawling all over the floor again while he took a minute to check and see if there was any incoming mail from the base. Bucky had sent a message, telling him that he, along with Wilson and Maximoff, would be heading out on a mission later in the evening, a request for a team-up coming from Katie Bishop in Glasgow. Asserting in a return message that he call in when they landed, Steve looked up from the device in time to see his son flopping belly-first atop Bonnie. The corgi was sprawled upon the floor, her dark eyes flicking up at him and almost pleading for aid. Her temper was holding, but she looked downright uncomfortable with the nearly nine-month-old trying to climb over her.

"No, bud, Bonnie is not a horse. You can't ride her," he reprimanded his boy, setting the tablet to one side. Getting up from the couch, he picked him up and bodily removed him from the dog. Angling himself so that Grant couldn't reach down as well, he gave Bonnie a few well-deserved pats for her patience, striding into the kitchen and grabbing her a couple of treats for her pains. To the baby, he said, "Tell you what: how about we get a book, have story time, and let the poor dog have a moment?"

The little guy's pouty lip didn't recede until a book was taken from the shelves along the far wall, his temper returning to a more even keel when he was sat down in Steve's lap on the floor and the story began. (Bonnie, however, snapped up her treats and nestled against one of the throw pillows on the floor, relieved to be free.)The deep, soothing baritone of the older man's voice lulled him, made him blink sleepily even as he reached out, helping his daddy turn the pages. Just as the three bears returned home to find their house in disarray and their food eaten, he let out a little yawn, mouth stretching into an O and catching his father's attention. Slowly, Steve set the book to one side, lifting up the baby and resting him against his chest. Stretching out along the floor, he kept Grant secure with one arm, the other crooking behind his head as he settled them both down for a nap.

It did not seem that much time had passed when Steve wearily opened his eyes again. Something felt off, and that feeling had nagged at him until he woke up. Scratching his stomach through his shirt, his eyes snapped completely open when he realized what was wrong: his son was not sleeping atop him any longer.

"Grant? Grant," he called out as he sat up, before mentally berating himself for the action as the little guy could not answer him yet. His gaze shot around the room as he pushed himself onto his feet, to the small cracks and open areas under the furniture his son could have crawled to. Finding them empty, he swallowed hard. Pleased gurgles resounded then, and when he turned his head to look, his eyes went impossibly wide with shock. "Grant! No, not on the stairs!"

Grant had, indeed, found his way to the stairwell while his father napped (though he clearly hadn't been there long, as he was still near the bottom few steps, he had managed to climb a good number of them). The baby gate had been pushed along the far wall when they'd gone up and down earlier, and therefore was no hindrance to him. Smart little guy that he was proving to be, he'd figured out that how to propel himself upward, his weight balanced on his upper half to steady himself. Surprised by his father's outburst, the baby's arms wobbled, his weight shifting and dropping his chin onto the step. Thumping against it, the little guy's eyes screwed up with fast, injured tears, the pearly drops rolling down his reddened face as he wailed. Just as the first tears fell, Steve clambered over, scooping up the boy and cradling him to his chest, sitting down on the steps with a thud and rocking the baby. Shushing sounds crawled out of him as his son cried, the rapid beat of his heart slowing and taking on a slight ache.

"Buddy, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to yell," he exhaled fast, giving the little man back pats and smoothing down his ruffled hair. The ache in his heart and the twist in his gut tightened, and he swallowed with difficulty as he acknowledged both. "I was just...scared."

That seemed like an understatement in the moment; he was absolutely terrified by the incident. Inwardly, he was cussing himself out for not getting the gate into place, for falling asleep and letting the little guy wander away from him. He was supposed to keep his family safe, and he had failed in his duty. He felt terrible about it, about his son getting hurt and for frightening him as well. More rocking and shushing came from him for some time, until the baby's cries petered down into soft crows and whines, the intensity in them drying up little by little. Holding him up, he looked at his son, determined to know he would be alright.

"You better now?" he asked Grant, carefully pressing his fingers into his cheek to turn his head towards the light. An angry bruise swelled just below his chin, but he was not bleeding, nor was his mouth when he gently checked that out as well. No broken bones, no cut tongue, just the little injury and the guilt hovering in the air around him. Dipping his chin, he brought the little guy up, nuzzling his hair and closing his eyes in muted relief. Another thought occurred to him, dread ripping through him, and he coughed. "We are not telling your mother about this. Not until you're eighteen, at least. Maybe when you're twenty, just to be safe. "Okay?"

The baby whimpered and sniffled, but he otherwise clung to his father, big blue eyes blinking at him before he burrowed against the older man's shoulder. Sighing deeply, Steve held him, patting his back again.

"Okay."

Getting to his feet, he carried the baby into the kitchen, going about the task of assembling an ice pack one-handed. It was clumsy, and took a few tries, but he was unwilling to put Grant down, crooning to him and talking constantly to distract him from his injury. Soon enough, the pack was ready, and he gently pressed it to the bruise. A few more whimpers came out, and the baby tried to wiggle away from it, but he eventually calmed down and let his father take care of him. Getting down the swelling as much as he could, Steve breathed heavily through his nose as he glance up at the clock. It would be time for dinner soon, and Holly would be home as well; best to start then.

It wasn't long before the adventure on the stairs was out of the baby's mind, Grant settling on the island as his father assembled ingredients for the evening meal. Little hands poked and prodded at everything, marinara sauce flung around and splattered before Steve could stop him. He was in the process of finally moving things out of his reach while balancing the baby with his free hand when the back door locks clicked and whirred, the handle wrenching and Holly stepping through.

Dark eyes widened as she took in the sight before her: spilled marinara, sticky noodles practically falling out of a tipped bowl, cheese slices flopping around the pan that was being readied for lasagna.

"What on Earth?" she murmured, unable to stifle the laughter in her voice. Steve shook his head, a self-derisive snort rocketing out of him as he straightened up.

"I was making dinner, and Grant helped, and...yeah, he helped." He sighed deeply, swiping at the streak of sauce on his face, and then at the coating on his son's. As his wife shook her head at them both, he mumbled, "I'll just take him up for a bath."

Holding up a hand, Holly couldn't hide the grin on her lips as she strode forward.

"I'll take him," she said, reaching out for the baby and giggling when the little guy went right into her arms. Pecking his head, she glanced around at the kitchen, circling a finger at the spills and the destruction atop the counters. "You can try to salvage...whatever this was."

Steve exhaled sharply, canting his head at the mess and squaring his shoulders. "Yes, ma'am."

His response was softened when she stretched up, kissing his cheek and patting his shoulder before pivoting and walking away. Fetching up a washcloth from the cupboard under the sink, he'd just gotten it wet and lathered in soap when he heard his wife gasp quietly.

"And what is this?" she cried, holding up Grant and tilting him back a little to look at the bruise under his chin. Given that he carried part of Steve's genetics, the purple-redness of it had lessened somewhat in the last couple of hours, but it was still visible. Flinching hard, Steve scratched at the back of his neck when he faced his wife, her knitted brows making his stomach clench at the memory of his mistake.

"He bumped his chin on the floor crawling," he mumbled, the partial truth carrying him through. Grant had been crawling, and he had bumped his chin hard. He just did not mention where.

Like he'd told his son before, there was going to be no mention of where in the immediate future. Not if he wanted to keep himself alive and with his manhood intact.

"Poor baby," she murmured, brushing the gentlest of kisses on her baby's injury before taking him upstairs, her husband breathing out a deep sigh of relief. Shaking his head—and compelling his nerves to settle down as well—he continued putting together the lasagna, with it baking in the oven and the kitchen nearly clean by the time his wife had returned with their son, all clean and dressed in new, Darth Vader pajamas.

"Remember, son: between us until you're thirty," he reminded the baby in a whisper when he settled him in his high chair, Holly in the living room and fiddling with the record player before dinner was ready.

"Bah-bah," Grant replied, smiling broadly when his daddy gave him a conspiratorial wink and a peck in his hair, the incident fading as the meal was plated and the evening rolled on.

* * *

 **A/N:** And back to domesticity we go. But hey, at least Holly has a shot at writing a second book, and Steve got in his quality time with his son. Albeit, it involved the little rascal worming his way over to the stairs, but hey, just don't tell his mother. And no, I don't believe this makes Steve a neglectful parent. I think it makes him a human one, prone to making mistakes, and Grant being clever enough to work out how to get there without alerting Daddy for a few minutes. Which some little kids totally are...some are sneaky little ninjas, getting precisely where they shouldn't be.

Quick question for you all: would anyone be opposed to me moving the posting schedule for my stories back to a more end-of-week one? I feel like it would be better in the long run, since my schedule has leveled out a bit and I can take the time in posting these days. It wouldn't really go into effect until closer to the next installment, but I would like to know your opinions on the matter.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, _Star Wars,_ etc.).

Happy early 4th of July, to those who are celebrating American independence, like I am! Also, happy early birthday to Steve Rogers (one more year to 100, according to the MCU continuity)!

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	21. Chapter 21

A knock rebounded off the open door, and the clear baritone followed soon after. "Hey, doll?"

Holly looked up from the email she'd been scanning over. Her literary agent, in conjunction with the publishing house, had received her first draft chapters of her sequel, corrections sent back to her after a few days. She hadn't had the time at work that day to even give it a cursory glance, and had decided to wait until after dinner to take a look. Leaving Steve to the task of cleaning up the dishes, she'd brought Grant up to the office with her, his happy screeches and crows as he toddled around and played a nice counterbalance to the pops of notes and suggestions on the screen. Sitting back in the chair, she turned her attention from the screen yet again to look over to Steve, a question in her eyes. She had thought he'd have gone out right after clean-up to take Bonnie on a walk, but given how the corgi gave a few yips down the stairs, that wasn't the case.

"Yeah?"

"Your brother just called me," he told her, leaning against the open jamb of the door. Crossing his arms, he dipped his chin and continued, "Said that he would be in Niagara with Gemma and Jodie this Wednesday, wants to know if we can come out to see them on the weekend."

Holly's brow furrowed, and she paused in her writing, physically pushing back from the desk. She tipped her head to the side as her eyes squinted in thought as she swiveled to face her husband.

"He didn't tell me they'd be coming out. Weird," she muttered, tapping a finger against the grain of the desk top. Her brother had speculated about taking his girlfriend and daughter out on a trip sometime in the next few months, but she hadn't thought it would be in the middle of May. Jodie's school was well past its scheduled time for spring break, and they couldn't wait for the year to end in the first week of June? Something smelled fishy to her, and she let her supposition show on her face.

Her husband met the supposition frankly, shrugging a shoulder.

"Well, they are, and he really wants us there. You more so, and Grant, but I do merit third place," he stated, nodding down to the baby pulling himself up along the edges of the futon. "Out of three, but, eh."

Grant crowed out then, smiling up at his daddy as he kept one hand braced and toddled over to him. He'd recently graduated from pulling himself up to taking short steps, his jerky strides carrying him around easily. (Unlike his first crawling experiences, he did take his first steps in his mother's presence, which delighted her to no end.) The toddling at ten months swelled his parents' hearts with pride, even though they both had to be doubly sure about all gates in the house. Grinning, Steve knelt and held out his arms, Grant's pace increasing and practically causing him to hurtle into his father's embrace. All the while, Holly looked upon them both fondly, even as she snickered at her husband's pronouncements.

"Oh, come on, you know he's just being a dork. He likes you."

Steve snorted lightly, shifting Grant in his arms as he stood. "Considering that we 'defiled his baby,' I'm not sure about that."

Holly bit her lip, barely able to stifle the giggle that threatened to break out. Her brother, on occasion, would still reprimand them both for their supposed actions over Christmas in his restored car. At that point, it was more humorous than anything else, but she feigned indignation at that moment.

"Frankly, he was more pissed at me about that, I think," she responded, chewing her lip as she thought about it. Brushing it off after a few seconds, she asked him pointblank, "Did he say why he wanted us there?"

Now Steve evaded her gaze, his eyes settling on a point slightly above her head as he canted his in denial. Her eyebrows inclined, but she merely crossed her arms as he spoke again.

"Not really. Just that it was important." At that, her mouth opened, but he swiftly cut in again, bouncing Grant a little and making him laugh. "We should probably head up Friday night, after work, maybe grab Grant early from daycare. Bucky can take Bonnie for a day or two; he's on-call this weekend."

Sidetracked by his deflection, she raked a hand back through the waves of her hair.

"Yeah, she'd enjoy some time with her second favorite human," Holly agreed, inhaling deeply and standing as she mulled over the plan. Crossing over to him, she took a moment to give her baby a kiss on the cheek before shooting a wry look at her husband. "By the way, I don't believe you. You totally know what's up."

He looked down then, his lips quirking. After the call, he knew full well that he wouldn't be able to lie to his wife, not about something that affected a member of the family. It was something Hank knew as well, but that did not mean either was willing to give the game away just yet.

"It's a surprise, sweetheart," Steve said instead, hoping that would be enough to tide her over. When her eyebrows scrunched together and she opened her mouth to question that, he held up a hand in placation. "Hank asked me not to say anything."

That pulled her up short. Hank was rarely one for surprises, either for giving or receiving. The fact that he wished for this trip's reasons to be so told her that he had something big on the back burner. How it would affect herself or her family, she was unsure. But, as she reasoned mutely, there was only one way to find out. And while she was reaching that conclusion, her husband was mentally crossing his fingers, hoping that she would accept her brother's word. He didn't like waiting for the bomb to drop, but Hank had insisted on it.

"Okay," she conceded then, a rush of breath coursing out of her nose. Tipping her head to the side, she asked Steve, "Think you really can get away?"

"Somehow, I believe I can manage that," he told her, his lopsided grin returning.

She fully smiled in return, though she did eye him up warily. "Alright. You know, there's that whole long car ride in which I could pester you about it."

"I'm fully aware, dear," he retorted wryly, just as Grant let out a pleased shriek and noisily filled his diaper. Clicking his tongue at the boy, he shook his head, casting another glance at his wife. "Pack something nice to wear."

The suspicion rose again in her eyes, but he pivoted on his heel, his role as messenger fulfilled and the secret safe. For the moment, his most pressing concern was changing his son's diaper and cleaning him up accordingly.

"Sorry, direct orders."

Holly snorted and rolled her eyes. "Oh, now I'll definitely be pestering during the ride."

"Looking forward to it," he called over his shoulder, Grant's giggling floating out after as he walked them away.

As planned, the Rogers clan were well on their way west as soon as the workday ended on Friday. With the little corgi safe and in Bucky's care (already being spoiled by a few treats he'd had on-hand for her when they brought her to the base), they wound their way across the state. Grant's tendencies towards hating car rides of any variety had calmed somewhat, with the little guy sleeping through the first half of the trip, and crying until he got a bit of dinner into him. Darkness had fallen by the time they'd reached the hotel Holly's brother and his unit were staying at, their own room booked and waiting for them. Once they were checked in and all their things were taken upstairs (all under her brother's name, with them paying him back later to help maintain anonymity), Hank had texted them to come back down, for them all to meet and touch base in one of the open lounges on the main floor.

Hank stood up first to greet them when they arrived, his dark hair a little shaggier than it had been back at Christmas. Gemma said her hellos next, hugging both Holly and Steve warmly. Jodie came last, blinking a little sleepily as she was passed between her aunt and uncle, giving the baby a hug as well before she adjourned back to the seat she'd been stationed at (the television on the far wall was on, an old _Looney Toons_ cartoon playing on it). Given that the hour was relatively late, they all resolved to spend a short amount of time in the lounge catching up, the next day coming fast. Gemma asked after Holly's latest chapter woes, while the brunette in turn inquired about how the real estate market was back home (Gemma was a realtor in her own right, and a good one, at that; she'd been the one to find the small space for Hank's friend to use for their brewing venture). Hank talked a bit about the shop, and how their parents were doing, while Steve came back with a few stories about the visits to hospitals and charities the team were undertaking over the next month or so. The Martin party had been in Niagara Falls for the past couple of days, sightseeing and squaring a few things away before the others would arrive. Grant was set upon the floor with a couple of toys, the little guy happily dandling them and giggling, and his antics provided ample fawning opportunities for his uncle and his family to indulge in. Soon enough, the elder Martin sibling was drawing his sister up, asking to speak to her for a moment in private. Holly's suspicious sensors were tingling as she rose from her seat, but when she was merely given a bland look by her husband and a slightly nervous grin decorated Gemma's face, she complied. She and her brother made their way outside, to where the pool and the wide patio surrounding it were placed, the breeze of the night rippling the water gently.

"Beautiful here, huh?" Hank said, standing on the edge of the outdoor patio. Most of the hotel patrons were in their rooms, so he and his sister could enjoy the view of the night sky. Light pollution was present, but even so, a star or two managed to show up through the veneer.

"That's what I hear. Probably will be in the daylight," she teased, nudging him in the arm with her elbow. The atmosphere was fairly similar to home, save for the energy of knowing that one of the largest waterfalls in the country were so close. Shaking her head, she wandered over to the fence surrounding the patio and pool area, and leaned back against it. Cupping a hand in the air, she gestured for him to speak. "So why did you ask us to come here?"

Hank grinned at her, not perturbed in the least. Straight and to the point, as the Martins often were, was she. Striding up beside her, he too rested against the fence, leaning his elbows upon it and facing the opposite direction.

"Well, I wanted to see if you'd do me and Gemma a favor. Both of you," he added, nodding back toward the little guest lounge in which Steve had tarried with Gemma and Jodie. Idly, his thumb rubbed along the inside of his finger as Holly's eyebrows inclined.

"You couldn't ask over the phone?"

Hank shook his head, letting out a small sigh. "It's a little too time-sensitive. And I didn't want a big deal made out of it. Neither of us did."

Knowing his sister, he could practically see her suspicions elevate in her mind, all the questions churning behind her irises. Her spine stiffened, and she looked at him directly.

"Okay, so?"

The older brother stood up straight once more, taking in a few deep breaths of the evening air. Drawing his courage from within himself, he took yet another deep breath, and he pulled his lips into a rueful smirk.

"Would you mind being one of the witnesses for mine and Gemma's wedding tomorrow?"

Holly's jaw dropped, and she gaped like a fish for several long moments before she gathered enough of her thoughts and enough of her breath to respond.

"WHAT?!"

Inside the lounge, Steve and Gemma turned in tandem toward the patio doors when the shout rebounded, the panes of glass revealing Holly's shocked expression and her brother's sheepish shrugs. The blond man gave a weary chuckle, scrubbing a hand along the back of his neck.

"Think he just told her."

"Pretty sure you're right," Gemma returned, her partial grin tremulous as she shot a look over to the doors leading out to the patio. Tugging on the end of her braid, she asked the blond man across from her, "Is she mad?"

At once, he frowned, his head shaking.

"If she is, it's only because he didn't give her any prior notice," Steve uttered knowingly. However, his brother-in-law had expressed his wishes, and he had wanted to respect those. Instead of a grandiose marriage ceremony and reception—which neither he nor Gemma wanted—they instead wanted their nuptials to be simple and without drama. Rather, they preferred to have a getaway, exchange vows, and do a party for their collective families when they returned. (Steve, inwardly, was relieved that he would not be the one to have to tell his mother-in-law about the marital developments. He could just imagine Lisa's reaction at it all; no disapproval, but disappointment that she couldn't help her child with the ceremony at all.) Gemma had voted for someplace less tacky than Las Vegas to do so, and they agreed on Niagara instead. Plus, it meant that his distant sister and her family could be a part of it in some way as well. Steve had agreed to go along with the plan, and didn't really have any regrets. Well, except for the possible one that involved Holly being sore over not being told. "And she'd probably be angrier with me because I didn't spill the beans."

The red-gold braid swung as the other woman tipped her head to the left. "Better use the baby as a shield then."

Snickering, Steve gathered up his son from the floor, standing him up in his lap and asking him directly, "You game for that, Granty? You gonna protect me from Mommy?"

Gemma chuckled, reaching over and tickling her soon-to-be nephew on the belly. Relishing his giggles and waving hands, her amusement bled away when she looked over at Jodie in her perch in the nearby armchair. The young girl had been strangely quiet all evening, her expression flat and her eyes dull. When she was asked a direct question, she would answer, but she would say as little as possible. Gemma couldn't understand it, and she felt a mixture of guilt and sorrow for the girl. She had come to really care for her over the last couple of years she'd been involved with Hank (in point of fact, she loved Jodie, the two of them having gotten along well once they'd been introduced to one another), and to have her say so little, keep to herself, worried her. Inwardly, she conceded that perhaps waiting to spring the elopement on the girl until just before they left wasn't the best decision, but they'd wanted her to be included, and they definitely didn't want her in the dark up until they found their way to the minister.

At the time, when they were boarding their flight and telling her about their secret plans, asking her to be involved and to keep it to herself until her aunt and uncle came, she'd agreed, but she'd barely spoken since. Gemma had let herself get swept away in the impulsiveness of the moment, but she couldn't allow herself to be lost to it any longer. Not when it affected her almost-stepdaughter as much as it did.

"Hey, girlie, are you okay?" she asked, softening her voice and her question with the nickname she'd given the child months ago. That time, however, the ten-year-old wasn't having any of it.

"'Mfine," Jodie grunted, looking away from her and physically turning her body to face the television. The cartoon onscreen had barely held her attention before, but at that moment, she found it enthralling. Steve and Gemma exchanged glances as she shrugged, a sigh pouring from her lips. "I'm tired."

Before either could inquire further, the patio doors swung open, brother and sister returning from their chat outside. With her initial shock subsiding, Holly crossed the room and gathered Gemma up into a hug, congratulations on her lips and joy in her irises. The look was mirrored twofold in Hank's, coupled by intense relief. Despite the pleasure at the acceptance of his wife and the spilling of plans for the following day, Steve cut fast looks at Jodie, who remained utterly silent for the rest of the evening until they all departed for bed, and worried for her.

 **xXxXxXx**

Stifling a yawn, Natasha Romanoff exited the locker areas, checking the time on her phone as she left. Having just returned from a scouting mission with Sam and Wanda, much earlier than was projected, she was more than eager to change out of her suit and back into her civilian wear. More to the point, she was eager to be back at the base, back in the halls that had slowly become home to her over the past couple of years.

As well as that, she was raring to get back to the fellow that, as time went on, made it all seem more and more like home to her. Even if she wouldn't go announcing it to the whole world. Traipsing through the empty halls, she found her way up to the floor where all their offices resided, rounding the corner and approaching one in particular. The blackout controls were on, but the door was open a smidgeon (sort of defeating the purpose of the controls in her mind, but she wasn't in a mood to contradict the occupant's reasoning on that). Peering in, she soundlessly pushed the panels inward, revealing the space to her eye. The room was no longer merely stark walls and bland furniture. Now, there were several snapshots framed and hanging up, joined by prints of the Brooklyn Bridge and a village in Italy. The desk at the far end was occupied, the person there tapping away carefully at the keyboard before him. Tired blue eyes flicked from the screen down to his lap, the metal of his left wrist clicking as he reached down and patted the small dog napping on his legs.

Bucky Barnes, the new Captain America, was hard at work, despite the lateness of the hour. And somehow, he was managing to indulge the corgi in his care for the next few days. A gentle curve came to her lips as she stepped fully into the room, her eyes flashing mischievously when cornflower blue eyes swept up to meet her gaze. She knew he'd realize she was there, probably before she came in, but she did not comment upon that.

"Does the overworking come with the title, or is it a trait that you and Steve bonded over?" she asked, sidling across the floor and resting her hip against the desk when she was close enough. At the sound of her voice, she heard a little snort, and then Bonnie's head popped up, yips shooting out of her as the female human crept closer and her tongue lolling out. Bucky took her shifting in stride, though he did wince when a misplaced foot found purchase in a tender spot.

"Please," Bucky retorted eventually, the corner of his mouth curving while his eyes returned on the screen before him. "We bonded over baseball cards and stealing cookies when his ma wasn't looking."

"Not to mention kicking the crap out of any kids who tried to do the same to you, first," she replied, knowing full that was the truth, too. When Barnes did no more than let his smile grow a little, she flapped a hand in the air, brushing it off. "Either way, you've been in here too long." Of that, she had no doubt. As he was on-call, Bucky took his base duties rather seriously, laboring through any mission reports he'd failed to finish in the previous days or taking his time in the training rooms more often than not. Noticing the ball of tan and white fluff resting on his legs, she tutted under her breath. "Look at the poor animal, she's suffering."

Barnes glanced down at the little dog in his lap, the corgi giving him a sort of doggy grin just before she huffed a breath out. As she snapped her jaws shut and snuggled in again, he snorted audibly.

"Yeah, that big yawn really shows how terrible it is," he groused playfully. Raking his metal hand back through his hair, he shook his head as she came closer, sighing, "I—"

Natasha cut him off then, her lips descending onto his and stemming his speech.

"My apartment, ten minutes. Don't be late," she told him, pivoting on her heel and leaving the office as swiftly as she'd arrived.

Though he made no promises, he had been prompt in showing up when she requested he should. At the nine and a half minute mark, a knock came at her apartment door, and she let him in, kisses exchanged on the threshold as the little corgi at his side was released from her leash.

"Oh, the little queen is surveying her newly-acquired territory again," Natasha joked, watching with amusement as Bonnie bounced around the living room, her nose poking under the couch and into the corner where all the throw pillows were at. Shortly after that, she trotted to the small dining set, her nose lifted high in the air as she went. A part of her wondered how true her words were in that moment, but still, she merely laughed.

Bucky outright scoffed, in good humor. "They should've just changed her name when they got her. _Your Majesty_ seems to suit better."

"Still, she's a sweet, benevolent ruler," the redhead beside him concurred, just as the little dog returned to the throw pillow pile, flopping onto it and yipping once. Having staked her claim to the space, she gave a little doggy grin, and Natasha smirked. "Underneath the imperialism."

With Bonnie contentedly lounging on the pillows, Natasha and Bucky set about scrounging up some dinner for themselves. As the mission she was on was relatively cut-and-dry, there was not much room in the schedule to grab a full meal. And James, she knew, had likely suppressed any urge to indulge while he was working, choosing rather to finish what he'd started than lose any momentum by breaking away. Leftovers of chicken and greens from the cafeteria downstairs were reheated, and the redheaded beauty scraped a good chunk of the meat onto a plate for the corgi to indulge in. Lights were lowered as the pair took themselves to the couch, firing up the television and looking for something to watch. Discussions of the mission sprouted, with Natasha filling him in on the intel they'd gathered—some excess files of HYDRA having been transported to a base they'd cleaned out several months ago, along with some new information regarding the sect that Coulson's team was going against—but soon enough the shoptalk was put away. Plans for the following day were made, though they mostly involved Natasha getting her own reports finished and Bucky catering to the little dog in his charge for the weekend. (The hours in between would be theirs to seize, and even with Wilson and his girl challenging them both to a contest of video game skill in the evening, they were determined to have their time together.) The movie onscreen garnered some attention, the flick being an adaptation of _The Count of Monte Cristo_. Debating the points of the book that did not make it to the screenplay, Natasha was struck by a thought. It was a common one, one that she could generally push down in moments like those. However, that evening, it twisted and pinched at her until she gave it voice, waiting until dinner was finished and she was curled up against her lover's side before pushing out.

"You know, when I was younger, I didn't...I didn't understand the merit in spending time like this," Natasha mused softly, her finger trailing over Bucky's chest and to the buttons on his Henley. Plucking at them carefully, she felt her brow quirk as she considered her words, inhaling deeply against the residual feelings of fear and pain as they echoed in her memory. "Everything I did was meant to have a purpose. Not always good ones, but anything less was deemed...a waste."

Bucky nodded at that, his lips thinning slightly. "Doing things for yourself as opposed to following orders would definitely be something your...school, would not have approved of."

Nat shrugged. "There wasn't really a choice. Not until they sent me out. Only took a few years on the other side for me to figure out how wrong they were."

The new captain chuckled, little amusement in his voice. "A few years?"

The woman that was called the Black Widow by many, and Natalia by one, smirked at that.

"I can be stubborn, or so I've been told. And it's hard to throw aside a lifetime of living, breathing in that whole experience. Had to happen at the right time."

She didn't know what was compelling her to speak about it, to comment about the differing states her life had occupied over the course of time, but since it had happened, she wouldn't fight it. She was meant to be seamless, to fit into any situation as easily as if she'd been born and bred to do so. No flaws, no personal observations, just her slotting into whatever hole that needed filling. To be herself, to have time to herself, never happened before Clint and SHIELD; now, though, it was all too common to find herself with the time to decide what she wished to do, and who she wished to do it with.

Even when the voices deep within her chided her for it, for her choices, for her independence. There was a strange, perverse delight still, in telling those voices precisely where to shove it when she chose to relax, to be with the man she'd chosen as her partner, and to simply be.

When she looked up, she found a depth of pain and sorrow similar to her own reflecting back at her. And along with that came same, breathless delight of freedom pushing them down, the cornflower blue of the irises drowning out the blackness and the darkness. She felt something inside her soul ease, every time.

"I understand," Bucky nearly whispered, tucking back a few strands of her fiery hair.

"I know you do," Natasha said, her eyes closing briefly when he pressed a kiss to her forehead. No more was said for the evening, the television still humming softly as the pair settled in for the night, the little dog in the corner continuing to sleep undisturbed.

 **xXxXxXx**

Bright and early, those gathered in Niagara for Hank and Gemma's wedding had set out for the chapel they'd selected. It was actually something they'd had planned for months, booking a package well in advance of the day. Granted, they only had it for a couple of hours, but they were able to make the most of the time. With their marriage certificate on hand and the minister ready for them, all that was needed was for everyone to be dressed and on time. Hank had his good suit packed, dark gray and pressed well. Gemma, with her white halter dress and the pearl headband in her loose, red-gold waves, looked lovely, particularly with the small bouquet of pink tea roses in hand (fake, and surviving baggage checks, she'd proclaimed proudly when Holly had helped her out that morning, and they'd both chuckled). As requested, Holly did pack a good dress, the purple party dress she'd worn two years ago just fitting her again. Steve stood up beside Hank, his blue suit finding yet another purpose. The kids were attired well, too; Jodie was layered in pink and white, and little Grant—though he could no longer fit into his suit onesie—had a clean dress shirt, pants and shoes on. The ceremony itself was simple, and quite short in comparison to the last wedding they'd been to, but it was just as Hank and Gemma wanted. Vows were exchanged, as well as rings they'd purchased and smuggled with them from Minnesota, and soon enough they were signing off the certificate, the soft music on the small player filtering in the background the whole time.

Taken aback by the amount of forethought her brother and his new wife had put into the endeavor, Holly was pleased for them both, nonetheless. She remembered how he had been after divorcing Ashley, how lost her was while still trying to maintain his life and support their daughter. He'd regained the pieces of himself that he'd lost, little by little, when Gemma started coming in more and more. Her kindness, her no-nonsense attitude, even the bit of snark she lent to proceedings complemented him so well; Holly was just happy that she'd taken a chance on the mechanic who'd worked on her busted engine all those months back, taking him and his number into her keeping. (When she wiped away a few of the tears that had dripped out of her eyes, she found Steve proffering her his pocket square, murmuring how he'd taken it with just in case. She'd stuck her tongue out at him, both of them chuckling as she cleaned herself up.)

With the ceremony completed and the certificate signed, the Martins and the Rogers' clans made their way to North Tonawanda, to a Greek restaurant that Hank and Gemma had spotted a few days ago and wished to try out. It wasn't packed, thankfully, but even so, they'd managed to book a small private room in the back, giving themselves the chance to be able to eat and relax without worrying terribly about strangers coming up and congratulating the married couple unduly (or better yet, trying to force themselves onto their lunch in an attempt to get the former Captain America's attention, Hank had partially teased; all of them were grateful for it, either way). With jackets shucked and ties loosened, the small wedding party enjoyed their time at the place, a few toasts passed around as they indulged in their dishes, Gemma jokingly tossing her bouquet at a female server and the young lady dipping into a bow when she'd caught it. With the rest of the day to fill, it was decided that they would all go on one of the boat tours later in the afternoon, once they'd all had the chance to change and rest up from the morning. That night, the youngest Martin would sleep over in her aunt and uncle's room, giving her the chance to spend some time with them and her cousin before they would leave on Sunday—and to afford the newlyweds one night of honeymoon bliss.

As she'd pushed down the urge to relieve herself for awhile, Holly rose from the table after the plans for the day had been discussed, off to find a bathroom and wondering if the other girls wished to come along. Having been quiet since the ceremony, Jodie abruptly scooted out of her chair, jumping up and following her aunt out, mumbling about needing the bathroom as well. The older woman did not think anything of it, laying her hand on the young girl's shoulder and bringing her through to the washrooms near the back. She'd heard Jodie as she went in and out of a nearby stall, the run of water ending before Holly could exit one herself. The small, tile room was empty when she headed over to the sinks, a thought nagging at the back of her mind as she washed her hands and dried them off.

When she'd found her way back to the private room, she'd felt the nagging increase, and her heart began to shrink a bit in her chest.

"Holl, where's Jodie?" Hank asked his sister when she approached the table, his face creasing in a frown as he glanced back toward the doors she'd come through. "I thought she'd would've waited for you."

Holly's brow furrowed, and she felt her own stomach sink in concern.

"I couldn't find her when I got out. I thought she'd come back here," she confessed, sharing a look with her husband. Swallowing hard, she dipped her chin once, Steve thinning his lips as he rose and came around to her. Looking at her brother again, she stated, "Steve and I will go look for her. You two sit tight with Grant, just in case she comes back."

With the baby left in his uncle and aunt's care, they left the private seating area, worry and fear flashing over their features as they began their search. The restaurant itself wasn't huge, but it would be easy for a ten-year-old to get lost, if she were unfamiliar with the place. And if someone were determined, she could be snatched up by anyone, as well. Stopping by the bathrooms once more, Holly shook her head upon coming out; she definitely wasn't in there. Splitting up briefly, Steve asked around the staff whenever he found one with a free moment, trying to discover if they'd seen a child matching Jodie's description. When Holly returned from one of the side dining rooms, without their niece, one of the waiters finally pointed toward the back entrance. A young girl in a pink dress had found the bench they used for their breaks, and she seemed terribly upset. Thanking him for his information, Steve felt his hand being grabbed, his wife practically towing him in the direction the waiter had indicated the bench to be.

True to the waiter's word, Jodie was on a bench just inside the foyer for the back entrance, picking at the hem of her dress and swinging her legs back and forth. She'd hung her head, the toe of her shoe scuffing against the hardwood as she dragged her foot across it, her curls falling limply over her shoulders. The set of her face, though, really drew attention. There was such a harsh mixture of emotions flitting across it, it was difficult to pin down exactly what they were. Taking quick strides, Holly and Steve witnessed the flare in her irises when she looked up, her jaw clenching at being caught out. Slowing down, the older woman carefully perched to the left of the little girl on the bench, laying her palm loosely on her shoulder.

"Hey, Jodie," she said, receiving no more than another side-eyed glance for her efforts. Moving her hand to rest upon her back, she continued, "You've been gone for awhile. We've been looking all over for you."

Jodie hummed under her breath at that, a measure of hurt entering her face so swiftly that it made her aunt's heart ache. However, she said nothing, and the hurt was shoved away in favor of the tightness she'd adopted earlier.

"What's wrong, kiddo?" Steve asked, sitting on her other side—between her and the door leading outside, in case she felt the need to bolt. If she did run, he could confidently keep pace with her, and bring her back, if there was a need. He didn't think that would be the case, and he was thankful that she would prove him right when she leaned back against the wooden slats of the bench, shaking her head.

"Nothing, Uncle Steve. Aunt Holly," she said, the inclusion almost an afterthought as she crossed her arms over her chest. The older woman's hand dropped into her own lap, fiddling with the bands on her left ring finger briefly.

"Doesn't seem like nothing," Holly noted, taking in the mulish set of the girl's jaw and the stiffness of her posture. Scanning her closely, she wondered, "You sure you're okay? Do you need me to go get your dad?"

"No!" Jodie snapped immediately, shrinking when she saw the surprised looks both her aunt and uncle were giving her. A red flush flooded her cheeks as she stared at her hands, her legs still swinging as she mumbled, "I mean, no."

Man and woman shared another look, and then Steve shrugged his shoulders.

"Alright, then," he murmured, the trio parked on the bench sitting in silence for several long minutes. Only the distant chatter of the restaurant patrons and the passing staff swirled around them, breaking it up and filling in the quiet spaces. Dejection filtered more and more into Jodie's face, and soon enough, she let out a deep breath.

"...I'm mad. And sad," she professed, tugging on the ends of her strawberry-blonde curls. Another glance, and then Steve cleared his throat.

"Uh-huh," he said, hoping that would be enough to prompt her to continue. She did not disappoint them in that regard.

"Because Daddy and Gemma are married," Jodie explained further, the pink in her face increasing at her confession.

Holly took in a sharp breath. She'd been afraid that it would be something like that, that Jodie's upset stemmed from something much deeper from getting lost, or being somewhere strange.

"Why?" she wondered, keeping her tone even and careful. "I thought that you really like Gemma."

"Yeah, but...but she's not my mom." The ten-year-old's eyes dropped to her knees, fingers picking at the hem of her dress. Shrugging a shoulder, she muttered, "Maybe it's a dumb little kid thing, but I've always wished that Daddy and Mom could...maybe be married again." She sniffed hard at that, head shaking, and Holly inhaled herself, knowing her niece well enough to know she was at the edge and about to tip over into tears. "It's stupid."

Another sniff, and then she looked up, red-rimmed eyes brimming. Looking at her aunt's sympathetic expression, her face crumpled, and Jodie turned away, burying her face into her uncle's shirt as she started to cry. Slightly taken aback by her actions, Steve recovered quickly and wrapped an arm around her, holding her as she let the tears fall. His other hand came up, patting her back lightly and his heart twisting in his chest for her. Holly reached out as well, combing at the strands of Jodie's hair as she scooted closer to shield her from any passing patrons of the restaurant.

"It's not stupid," the older man assured the young girl. In his mind, he empathized with her feelings, sort of. Though his parents had been separated by death rather than choice, he'd had his own fears about men coming into his mother's life, taking a place that he could not imagine belonging to anyone but his father. Sarah Rogers had remained a widow, despite there being interest shown in her as the years went on (Bucky's mom had set her up a few times, he recalled, and he'd wondered if his friend had picked up a few tips and tricks from her when his turn came), and so those fears never really came to fruition. The situations were different, but they held a few similarities, and he could understand those. Swallowing, he murmured, "You wanted your family to be together, like it used to be. It's understandable."

Holly nodded at that, humming aloud in agreement as Jodie raised her head after a few moments.

"Well, not _just_ like it used to be. Daddy and Mom fought a lot. I remember it; I could hear them shouting sometimes when I was in bed and they thought I was asleep." As she took a steadying breath, Steve looked over at his wife, Holly's lips thinned and a silent nod confirming the little girl's words. It was true; though she hadn't been at home when the divorce was going down, she'd heard the stories from her mother over phone calls, as well as from Hank himself. It wasn't a stretch at all for Jodie to have at least heard about the screaming matches between her parents. The strawberry blonde girl sniffed again, wiping at her face as she remarked sullenly, "I know they weren't happy, but maybe they could've...I don't know."

Steve exchanged another glance with his wife, keeping his arm tucked around his niece and giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze before clearing his throat.

"Sometimes, things just don't work out. I know it's not fair, or right, but it's true." From her profile, he could see the young girl shut her eyes against a fresh set of tears, and he felt his heart ache a little for her as she held them back as best she could. "I may not know exactly what you're going through, but I do know about things not working out like you wish they would. But that doesn't mean it's for the worse if they don't." When Jodie looked up at her uncle, gave him a questioning glance so much like her aunt's, he lifted a shoulder. "Look at your mom. She's a lot happier now, isn't she?" From what he had gleaned from Hank and the little tidbits of information passed on by Holly, the ex-wife was more than pleased to date around as opposed to being married, and caring for their child in a way separate from the father. Her life, it seemed, had improved without him by her side. He waited until the little girl nodded before continuing. "And your dad, too, with Gemma. Isn't that better than if they were still together and still fighting?"

Jodie slowly, reluctantly, nodded again. She had seen for herself how happy her dad had been, how happy he still was. Being with Gemma was different, for obvious reasons, and deep down, she was happy for that, too. Same with her mother.

"I guess," she remarked then, the hands in her lap curling around the fabric of her skirt. Shrugging, she maintained mulishly, "But I can't help it. I still gonna wish that things were different."

"You can do that," Holly cut in then, her voice soft, yet firm. Plucking up the edge of her dress, she scooted a bit closer, lifting the cloth up to Jodie's face and gently swiping away the fresh tear tracks. The edge of sympathy still ringed her eyes, but solemnity took over, compelling the young girl to listen as she spoke. "But you shouldn't dwell on it for too long. Honey, things aren't going to go back to the way they were, but you can make the best of the way things are."

The ringing truth in her words hovered around them all, the air saturated with it. Steve's expression was unreadable when Holly glanced at him, but whatever was meant to be in the storminess there, it cleared up enough for him to tip up Jodie's chin to look him in the eye.

"That sound like something you can do, _cara_?" he asked her, the corner of his mouth lifting. Though it was a struggle for her, the young girl managed to return the grin, somewhat, before it dropped away again.

"Yeah, I guess," she said, taking another deep breath before pushing herself to the edge of her seat. Taking her hand, Holly rose, running her thumb over her knuckles.

"You ready to go back in, kiddo?"

"...Okay," Jodie murmured, getting to her feet as well. As Steve got up to walk with them as well, the little girl shot a curious look at him, her head tipping to the side. "What's _cara,_ Uncle Steve?"

A corner of his mouth curved, and he told her, "It's Irish. It means 'friend.'"

"Oh. I like it," she declared, allowing her aunt to begin guiding her back into the restaurant, her uncle falling into step behind them.

Stopping by the bathrooms again, Holly quietly hinted that perhaps Jodie might like to wash her face before going back to the table. The little girl nodded, promising she would be back out in a couple of minutes before going in, a watery grin cast over her shoulder at her aunt and uncle. When the door swung shut behind her, both Steve and Holly let out deep breaths.

"It will probably take awhile for her to adjust to all this," he almost whispered, the forlorn look Jodie had on her face earlier flickering in his mind. Holly dipped her chin, slipping an arm around his waist as his wound around her shoulders.

"Yeah," she muttered, biting her lip for a moment. "I knew she wanted it to be her mom and her dad forever since this all started, but..."

"Not everybody can be that lucky," he stated softly, and as she looked to him, he grinned sadly at her.

"No," she agreed, looking at her husband for a few seconds before stretching up and kissing him on the cheek. He responded with a peck to her temple, taking her hand and squeezing it gently before she withdrew from his side, going into the bathroom herself as she shooed him back to the table. With each step, the exchange whirled in his mind, about how lucky some could be, and how many others weren't.

And how, he had determined, he would never, ever, want to lose that luck.

Winding through the restaurant, he made his way back to the private room, Gemma and Hank looking at his crossing with anxiety and concern on their faces. Grant was in his uncle's arms, a testament to their following explanation that they were about to look for them in that moment. Holding up a hand, he reassured them of Jodie's safety, that she had been found and would be on the way back with Holly shortly. Deep relief sprang along their features, Hank absently rubbing his thumb against his new wife's hand to relax her own stiffness. Taking his son from the brunet man, Steve patted the little guy's back before situating him in the high chair once more, concentration cutting across his brow. Taking his seat, his posture remained rigid for a few moments, his bright gaze darting up to meet his brother-in-law's hazel.

"Hank?"

Hank's eyebrows inclined, the concern resurfacing then. "Yeah?"

"Talk to your daughter before you send her over tonight," Steve implored his brother-in-law, deadly seriousness in his gaze. Hank met it fully, matching it in its intensity. Rogers knew how devoted and caring a father the brunet man was. He hadn't been ignorant about Jodie's sadness, but he hadn't been able to coax it out of her, due to time constraints and her own intransigence. However, it would be best for him to make the time before he and Gemma had a honeymoon night to themselves. All he needed was the reminder. Carefully, the blond man dropped his eyes to the table, to the food still left on his plate before sighing, "Please."

The other man nodded solemnly, fingers tightening around his wife's palm. "I will."

"We will," Gemma promised as well, her own eyes lighting with honesty just before she turned her attention away. Following her gaze, the remainder of the table breathed out a silent sigh of relief as Holly came into view, Jodie by her side and holding her hand as they walked. The tear tracks had been scrubbed away, and the redness had dissipated slightly, though it was clear that she still was not fully alright. At once, Hank was out of his chair, going over to his daughter and kneeling down to take her in his arms. Gemma came around, too, on the ground beside her husband and reaching for Jodie as well. To her credit, the young girl did not pull away or shake them off. Instead, she just apologized for running off, hugging them both before sitting down again.

When Jodie made her way to their room that night, the sorrow in her form seemed to have been lessened, if it had not truly abated. As she took the empty second bed, and her aunt took up the book she'd been reading with her dad to pick up where they'd left off, she'd nestled in. Her dad told her how proud he was of her, and how getting married didn't mean it was the end for their family. Gemma would be a part of it, not taking anyone else's place as she did so. (Which she knew, but Holly didn't doubt it was something Jodie really needed to hear.) It would be a bit difficult, adjusting to the new unit they'd become, but they would make a good start of it.

The following morning, the Rogers family had packed up their belongings, promises to call and email pictures taken on the boat once they'd returned to their respective homes being passed between them. Hank, Gemma, and Jodie would be heading directly to the airport, while Holly, Steve, and Grant had a full stretch of highway before them. Hugs and farewells were exchanged, the quick trip ending as swiftly as it had begun. Jodie was reluctant to say good-bye to her aunt and uncle, knowing it would be months before she would be able to see them in person. After giving Holly a hard, extra-long hug, and a gentle one to Grant when her aunt held him in place for her, she went straight to Steve when he knelt down to her level, her face pressing into his shoulder as her arms went around his neck.

"Have a good flight back, _cara,_ " Steve said, his smile a touch broader as Jodie's arms tightened around him at the nickname. From behind her, he watched as Hank's twisted in humorous confusion, a wry grin on his lips when Jodie pulled away.

"What did you just call my kid?" he asked, a faux menacing tone in his voice as he teased his brother-in-law. Before the blond man could answer, Gemma snorted and swatted her new husband's arm.

"Can it, babe. He just called her 'friend,'" she explained, drawing several sets of eyes onto her.

" _Labhra_ _í_ _onn t_ _ú_ _Gaeilge?_ " Steve asked her, stretching out the words deliberately.

" _T_ _á_ _, roinnt_ ," she replied, a joking winking shot his way. Her smile was sincere, though, as she continued, _"_ My last name used to be Callahan, if you didn't remember. Haven't spoken it in a long time, not since Gram passed."

Steve spiked an eyebrow. "She taught you?"

Gemma nodded, returning the gesture. "Yeah. You?"

A sad grin came to his lips. "Mom."

The other woman shook her head, her grin turning a touch grim. "Brave woman."

Glances were shared, understanding beyond the surface there. The understanding that came with a suppressed heritage, and the courage of those who educated theie families in spite of the adversity. Gemma's grandmother, Steve's mom...women cut from the same cloth, and they both knew it then.

"That she was," Steve murmured, the cloudiness in his face dissipating as his wife's hand slipped into his. Clearing his throat, he reached out his free hand, a half-smile curving his mouth as he shook Hank's hand in farewell. Beside Gemma, he caught Jodie curling her fingers around the older woman's wrist, her lip bitten for a moment before she spoke.

"Could, could you teach me Irish, Gem?" she asked, the first direct question she'd projected to her in days. Something akin to gratefulness and relief broke across Gemma's irises, but she maintained her bright smile as she looked down at her stepdaughter and nodded.

"Sure thing, girlie. What little I do know." Glancing up, she nodded in Steve's direction. "You might want to do fact checking with your uncle on occasion."

The blond man inclined his head. "That could happen."

A genuine smile bloomed on Jodie's face. Things weren't completely smoothed over, but the edges of the past were starting to bleed away and open up to the future as the families parted ways once more.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hey, guys. I apologize for the lateness this week. This past weekend, I was just not feeling well, and I spent the better part of my typical writing days recovering. Also, like I had considered doing in my author's notes last chapter, I have decided to move towards a more end-of-the-week schedule, so in a way, it kind of worked out. I guess? I dunno...either way, for those of you who were wondering, sorry for the weirdness.

This chapter was difficult to write, in that I have no personal experience with divorce and children of divorce, and remarriage. (Sorry to say, my parents were the boring, stuffy ones who have been together for over thirty years and will remain so.) I certainly do understand that the process for all is not smooth, even when everything seems to be for the best for all parties involved. I tried my best. As I generally do with each chapter, but I don't really know until it's uploaded and you guys tell me.

And I also gave Bucky and Nat some domestic time. Why? Because...I wanted to. Even if they dwell a bit on the past.

This has been an off week for me. I hope that will change in time for the next post. And juat as a reminder: you can keep up with that via my Twitter. Still operating under PhanProTweets.

Had to use an online translator for the following:

" _Cara_."—Gaelic, Irish; "Friend."

 _"Labhra_ _í_ _onn t_ _ú_ _Gaeilge?_ "—Gaelic, Irish; "You speak Irish?"

" _T_ _á_ _, roinnt._ "—Gaelic, Irish; "Yes, some."

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, _The Count of Monte Cristo,_ etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	22. Chapter 22

The lateness of the hour barely registered as Tony Stark sat at his computer, insulated as he was from the June night outside. The lab around him was quiet; Peter Parker had gone home hours beforehand, their most recent project finished and his aunt demanding he be back before dawn. Even the robots in his care were resting, only the clicks and beeps of the machinery he was actively utilizing breaking the silence. With Peter gone and Pepper back on the West Coast until the next Wednesday, he had the time to fill. He had the time to look in a private project, one that he had been undertaking over the last couple of years.

Police reports and files dredged from the depths of the hacked SHIELD database and even from the Oracle grid filtered along the wide, high definition displays, all his research compiled over the last couple of years. It had first started with the bombings in Hell's Kitchen; thanks to the due diligence of both Maria and Holly Rogers, multiple media sources had tracked the fellow who had been enacting a form of vigilante justice there. At first, he'd been simply known as the Masked Man, but over time, he was being called the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. (Something he'd been playing on, what with the tiny horns attached to his eyeless mask whenever someone chanced a photograph of him; Tony didn't know if that should've made him roll his eyes or commend him for his cheek.) Overall, he'd been keeping that particular neighborhood in check, but word on the street was that he was expanding, moving on to other parts of the city in conjunction with others. The profile of the character, which was narrow, allowed him to hone in on him, to dig deep and discover a common link between the subsequent events of Hell's Kitchen and a single man, one who had the ability to work between the light and the shadows, a single person who could operate within the law and without it. He'd done well to cover his tracks, but Tony had been digging for two years. Matt Murdock could no longer evade him.

The suspected collusion mirrored those of a few other individuals. A private investigator, a young woman who moved frequently within the city, was known to have been involved with some lower-level sweeps of the streets, caught on camera a few times as she dispatched her foes. A few times, she'd actually got right up in the camera lenses to deactivate them, the police files marking her as thin, with sharp features and dark hair capping it. She didn't look like she could hold up against a strong breeze, but the rumor was that she had undeniable, incredible physical prowess of her own. Lately, she'd been underground, working any cases that came into her hands without drawing too much attention to herself. Well, with the exception of being held sometime last week; her lawyer had found a way out of the charges, but he couldn't keep her off the radar.

Another person of interest was an ex-cop turned convict, a man built like a brick wall and tearing through them as well. The legal name change had thrown him off for awhile, but it wasn't too long before Tony was hitting firewalls to government projects, all to do with the guy before his stint in prison. From what he could gather, the guy had been working hard against everything that had come before, making a new name for himself in cage matches and cleaning up around Harlem (Wilson's mother actually had heard a story or two, something the Falcon had passed on a few months back).

The clincher was one that he had never thought to see coming. Orphaned kid, heir to his father's company, abandoned a world away for fifteen years...perhaps he should've suspected the Rand boy of more when he returned to the city. The quiet, unobtrusive young man that had reclaimed his inheritance, all light curls and clear eyes on the television, would not have otherwise made a blip on the radar, were it not for the strange things that had happened at his father's company since his return. Inside intel from employees muttered about the inner workings of the company, how someone from the upper floors had been behind the drug accusations and double-dealing that were later linked to the young man's name. When the other company leader turned up dead, and strange references made to underground armies had arisen, particularly ones that seemed to be connected to the place the Mister Daniel Rand had returned from, it was time to do a little digging. And while it wasn't much, it was enough for Tony to mark him down.

It was, after all, what he'd agreed to do as he'd been stationed in the city for so long. Not only was he watching out for Parker, he was watching out for any...enhanced aberrations. And oh boy, were there some aberrations.

An alert chimed on one of the screens, JJ forwarding him the scans and check-ins from JFK. A known alias of Mr. Rand had registered, and security footage sent to him showed the young man shielding himself with a hoodie and a hat, shorn curls tucked underneath it. He must have returned from yet another excursion, his absences noted by the company even as he redoubled his efforts every time he returned home. The eccentricities he exerted were noticed, noticed enough to have made him stand out amidst the crowds. Smirking to himself, Stark retrieved his handheld, quickly swiping through the telephone function and dialing out. After three rings, the other end of the line connected, and his smirk grew wider.

"Hey, Rogers," he greeted the answering party, frowning at thin air when the commander's voice grumbled back at him. Glancing at the watch perched on his wrist, he muttered, "Yeah, I do know what time it is. Weren't you already up with the ankle-biter, anyway?"

His eyes widened a little when the negative came out, when Rogers told him that his son was sleeping through the night, and that he had been, too. Tony furrowed his brow, clicking his tongue for a second or two.

"Oh...my bad," he apologized briefly. Clearing his throat, he cut through the commander's further objections, stating plainly. "Look, it's important. My cross-borough project...I got a lock. All four of 'em are in the city again."

A moment of silence passed, and then he nodded as Rogers asked for confirmation (and in the background, he could hear the little missus groaning for him to either quiet down and get out so she could sleep. Ah, marital bliss). Clenching his jaw briefly, he tipped his chin once more, his free hand working hard at the digital keyboard at hand.

"I'll get things arranged; you get your butt down here in the next twenty-four hours. In and out," he promised, keying in the code that had all their plans waiting on it. The time had come to pay each one of the special workers in New York City a visit, and as he hit the enter key, he grinned wryly to himself. There were documents to draw up and print off, not to mention employing requests for a summons, and he would see all through before the dawn broke over the horizon. The time had come, to draw them in and finally level with them, once and for all.

 **xXxXxXx**

It was well after dark when Matt Murdock approached the building he'd been summoned to. The address, an old warehouse down in Red Hook, had passed along that morning, a voice-mail from a fellow with a British accent tripping over the line. The owner of the warehouse was looking into a legal matter in regards to fees he'd been paying, and had wished for his aid. It had to take place outside of office hours, at night when the operations of the warehouse were quiet and they would have the chance to discuss the issues at hand. Something about the request seemed off, but he had agreed when the caller, a Mister Jarvis, Junior, had told him the exact amount he would pay for his services. An inconvenience fee, the fellow had stated, a few more moments of pleading eventually wearing the man down. He agreed to meet him that night, and so, once the sun had disappeared over the horizon, he had called a cab to take him there, cash firmly in hand and his cane extended to guide him there.

Truthfully, Murdock thought the request suspicious, even as he was driven over to the address. However, he did not think the endeavor too risky; as himself, he would be no more in danger than other sight-impaired fellow in New York City. And honestly, he was more of a danger than any person who could see that he knew of. He could handle himself, and if it turned out that Mr. Jarvis needed aid, then so much the better. He could help; he was always looking to help where he could.

Getting out of his hired cab, he cocked his head, the dark glasses on his nose sliding a bit. The street smelled...off. And not in the "summer's coming, pile all the trash bags on the sidewalk" sort of way. It smelled as though, save for the odd bit of foot traffic and dirt, it were unused. His senses heightened as he tapped his cane against the ground, sweeping it left to right as he found the entrance. Fumbling with the knob, he entered the building, the echoes and creaks of metal giving it away as a warehouse.

He stood in the silence, minutes ticking away as he listened to every creak, every rumble of cars in the street and the whistle of window through the high, opened windows. He was alone, or so he felt. Still, something did not feel right. His mind, a reflection of fire and flames coating the world around him told him there was nothing to fear, nothing to be aware of. So why could he not put the nagging sensation in his brain to rest?

A voice called down to him then, the wreath of flames in his mind licking and curling around an oblong structure as he turned his head towards it. A staircase, and the voice called down it again. Mr. Jarvis was calling, requesting him to come upstairs. Planting his feet firmly with every step, Matt grimaced as he mounted the stairs, his elbow digging into the wall as he climbed to the second floor. The floorboards shifted under his feet, the scent of dust shooting up his nose and sticking in his throat. Coughing, he heard Mr. Jarvis call to him again, the clatter of a door opening then.

Called forth, he slowly approached the space, the voice of his summoner asking him to sit tight there, as he had other business to attend to. As he rotated in the space, Matt suddenly realized why it all felt wrong: there was no body to accompany the voice. He'd been summoned by an AI. For what purpose, he did not know, but he tensed, either way.

"You're not real, are you?" he asked to thin air, his fingers curling tight around his cane.

"I'm as real as any application on a computer is, Mr. Murdock. You may call me JJ," the voice responded, sounding as though it were right beside him. In an almost nonchalant tone, it continued, "For the record, I am a program that has been employed to ask you here. My creator will be along shortly, if you will just wait."

"I have no reason to trust you," Matt warned, his body coiling in slightly. The response he expected, however, was not what he received.

"You have no reason not to, sir," the AI replied, its tone gentled. "All will be revealed to you, if you will wait here."

Murdock took in deep breaths, the disembodied voice vanishing after that. Listening intently, he heard nothing else for a long while, eventually relaxing his stance and letting his cane begin to sweep in front of him. He questioned his sanity even as he traversed to one side of the room, the rubber tip on the end of his cane bumping against something that was sturdy and metal. Leaning forward, he braced his hand along it, the flat surface spread out before him. Registering it as a desk, he slowly turned around, pushing himself onto it. He would figure this all out, he swore to himself, and then get out of there. All he had to do was wait.

In time, distant footsteps clattered in his ears, and he sat up straight, his brow quirking as he focused upon them. The rattle of the door handle downstairs came, followed by the deep huff of a breath. The stairs creaked one by one, the weight of the person upon them bearing down upon them. The closer they came, the more his body tensed again. The air shifted, a sweet scent cascading into the room, and he blinked.

That was not what he was expecting.

"Oh, my God," a feminine voice growled, and he shifted in his seat, cocking his head towards her. In his mind, the flames formed around someone of smaller stature, slighter build; she was indeed a woman, and a woman he knew, besides. The lavender smell hit him full force as she briskly strode forward, her determined steps clattering across the boards and all were giving her away. The last time they had been in company, he had bailed her out of some trouble. A client of hers had turned up dead, and unfortunately, she could not stay ahead of the police. Not that time. However, since what she was doing was not anything resembling obstruction of justice—just negligence, which was the best face he could put on it—she'd been allowed to walk. Both of them had come to the understanding that, should she need him, she would call again. That was months ago, and he had heard nothing of her since. His own duties had kept him busy outside of his work hours, and he reckoned it was the same for her.

Still, he had no real issue with Jessica Jones, and so he managed a small smile for her.

"Ms. Jones. What brings you here?" he wondered, though he had a fair inkling that whatever had summoned him must have summoned her, too. "I thought we had that matter of yours settled."

"Beats me," she grumbled, the sure steps of hers crossing the room. She paused, facing away from him and looking out onto the street. "I'd made contact in regards to a case, was told to meet here. Must have called you, too."

Murdock opened his mouth, but a shuffling sound caught his attention. The flames in his mind spiked again, and he let out a soft groan.

"Maybe, but that doesn't explain the other two guys."

Jones furrowed her brow, though he could not see it. Crossing her arms over her chest, she felt her spine stiffen.

"Other two?" she said, her tone demanding an answer. However, it came in the form of the fellows Murdock had sensed, the pair of them stepping through the doorway. One, pale-skinned and with shorn curls on his head, walked with a sort of tight grace, purpose in every movement. Idly, he scratched at the front of his shirt, a hint of black appearing in the peek of skin at the unbuttoned part of his shirt. His bright gaze moved over the room, over her and Murdock, but he said nothing. She recognized him, remembered the recent scandals that had gone on with Daniel Rand's return and the investigations in his company. She had thought to put herself forward for the job, but had rejected the notion; the notoriety would not have been worth it, in her estimation. When she did no more than stare back, he glanced over to the other arrival. The man was taller, broader, the dim light glowing on his dark skin. He paused on the threshold for a moment, staring at her before a rueful, bitter smirk came to his lips. For her part, Jones felt her lips thin for a few seconds; it was Luke Cage, entering her world yet again. "Oh, great."

The bigger man entered the room fully, a finger tugging at the collar of his yellow tee.

"Good to see you, Jess."

Her hum in response yielded little, the cut of her gaze striking through him as always. "You found a lost puppy, I see."

Blinking, Rand let his eyebrows incline at that. Certainly, he and Cage had recently come to call one another acquaintances, but the insinuation that he was helpless and lost hit him squarely. However, any response he could have mustered was stemmed by the bigger man's chuckle.

"Well, you know me. Always looking out for strays," Luke said softly, the corners of his eyes following suit. Her rigid stance seemed to relax the longer he looked at her, a spark seeming to catch in the air. A moment of silence descended upon them all, a noticeable lack of comfort in the air as the quarter held their tongues. Until the light-haired fellow cleared his throat, eyes darting between Luke and Jessica, his finger soon following the path of his gaze.

"So...I take you two are, or were..." he trailed off when Cage stared him down, the marked lack of amusement in his expression shutting him up. For her part, Jones rolled her eyes, glancing over the empty warehouse room with distaste.

"I'm too preoccupied with the fact that we're all here, at this specific point in time," she stated, giving each man a pointed look. Cage's gaze slid away, scanning the darkness just outside the window of the warehouse.

"Yeah, that fishy-ness does stink a bit," he said, lifting a shoulder when the young woman rubbed at the back of her neck. All of them, the kid, the girl, and the random guy on the desk showing in that one place, at that one time...he'd had busts and set-ups less obvious when he was working on the force. It rubbed him the wrong way, and as he darted a look to Danny, he could see the suspicion in him climbing as well.

"Well, we don't have to stay here," Rand said, hands folding into fists at his sides. "We could leave."

"How well do you think that would go over with whoever brought us here?" the single lawyer of the group iterated, rising from his perch on the abandoned desk and unfolding his cane. No response was forthcoming. At least, not from his summoned compatriots.

"You could certainly try, but then you'd miss out," a new voice rang out then, the four of them stiffening as footsteps crashed and echoed. Murdock's body tensed, his head turning in the direction of the newcomers. The wreathes of fire and flames in his mind reformed. Three people, two men, one woman. The tallest practically radiated power, the hint of aftershave and spice hitting his nose as his heavy steps hit the floor. The second fellow was more languid in his stance, the bitter aroma of espresso clinging to his person underneath the scent of expensive cologne, his tread lighter. The third, the woman, he recognized, the silence of her steps giving her away. His mind traveled back to the night of the explosions, to the last time he'd met with her, the coconut and orchid hints of her making him smirk to himself. The danger in her steps had not abated in the past two years, and strangely enough, he was glad that was the case.

The others, with the benefit of their sight and their own recognition from it, took in deep breaths. Rand took a step forward, his head tipping at the three who had just arrived.

"Tony Stark," he murmured, the billionaire nodding back before he named the others. "Captain America, and the Black Widow."

The tall, blond man muttered a hello to them all, while the redheaded woman nearby inclined her eyebrow. Stark himself fluttered his fingers at the younger man.

"Looking good, Rand. Despite, well, everything that I've heard," he replied, a plethora of understanding hidden underneath the offhandedness of the comment. Rand's eyes scanned over him then, chin dipping once.

"Thank you."

"Balls," Jones muttered under her breath, tucking her hands into the pockets of her jeans and leaning back against the nearest wall. Cage appeared to share her sentiments, though he maintained his posturing, arms crossed and legs spread, just in case. The redheaded beauty blinked at her, her ocean-colored eyes moving across the room to the fellow tapping his cane on the floor. Sensing her gaze, he half-cocked his head toward her, and waited.

"I told you to watch yourself," she said, making the others in the room don looks of confusion. Murdock, for his part, actually smiled at that, the bittersweet reminder of her last parting words to him surfacing then. Inclining his head, he said nothing, choosing to keep silent and hear what had brought them to that place.

"And he is a commander now," Stark piped up then, hooking a thumb at Rogers for Rand's benefit. The commander in question opened his mouth, preparing to speak, but he was cut off by the tech genius' further explanations. "One neck deep in diapers more often than not these days, but still commander. I suppose that does earn a bit of respect. Just a bit."

Rogers clenched his jaw for a second or two, before shaking his head. "Thank you, Stark."

Jones cleared her throat, pushing away from the wall and flapping a hand through the air. "As much as I'm enjoying the tea party, how about you all cut the crap and tell us why you brought us here? You gonna arrest us or something? Because that might not go down well."

The other men, though they did not verbally agree, did strengthen their stances. The tall, blond man stepped forward as well, his body open and loose to them all.

"No, we're not here to arrest you," Commander Rogers assured them, his hands spread out in placation. "You haven't done anything to deserve that."

Luke crossed his arms, a dry smirk on his lips as he scoffed, "I know a few officers that you should really tell that to."

Stark snorted audibly at that, scratching at the back of his neck. "Maybe later. Look, you've got questions, we've got questions...let's help each other out."

"I'd advise against that," Murdock spouted from his place. His head tipped again, and he halted the tapping of his cane. "Were this a different setting. But since you've already claimed that you aren't pursuing us in that fashion, I'm going to assume this is all off-record."

The redheaded woman, wreathed in flame in his mind, approached once more, and he heard the underling amusement beneath the stoicism.

"Fair assumption." Crossing the room, she darted her glances over the assembled parties, her tone sifting into total seriousness. "We've been keeping an eye on your activities for some time. Took awhile to pinpoint a few of you, but we got to it eventually." A cough came from Stark's direction, mild effrontery lacing his features, but a raised brow spiked at him kept him quiet. "You all show...remarkable abilities and talent."

Luke gritted his teeth momentarily, his eyebrows inclining. "Not remarkable enough to step in when we needed it, though, right?"

The Black Widow leveled him with the hardness in her irises. "Who says we didn't, Mr. Cage?"

He opened his mouth in response, but no words were forthcoming. It would explain why they knew of them all, how to get in touch with them without rousing suspicion. It wouldn't be difficult to surmise that even then, the organizations working in conjunction with the Avengers would be able to worm their way into standings, aiding in fights and confrontations in unseen ways. It would explain a lot of the quick, clean escapes from some of the scraps he'd been in, the lack of police presence actually connecting him to a few of them.

Rand stepped up then, hands in his hips though his posture remained fluid. "What do you want from us?"

The three gathered Avengers looked to one another, the commander exhaling deeply as he matched the younger man's posture.

"We want to put a proposition to you all," he put forth plainly, his face placid even as the others gave him looks of disbelief and contention. "None of you are obligated to take it, but for what it's worth, we wanted to offer it."

The brunette woman snorted audibly. "Thanks, but I'm not up for the whole super-squad thing you all have going on."

Stark raked a hand through his dark hair, spiking it up as he replied, "Figured as much. No, we're not offering membership. We're offering to work with you independently."

The summoned four froze in their spots, none of them having expected that. Taking advantage of the quiet among them, Rogers coughed, squaring his shoulders.

"You all have taken it upon yourselves to defend this city, to protect those who need it and to defeat those who try to destroy it," the blond man spoke again, circling those gathered slowly. "Some of it was mental, some of it was physical, but you were all strong enough to meet your challenges and come out on top." Jones let the iciness within melt when she noted the sincerity in his tone, in his face, and Cage's shoulders appeared to relax minutely. His words were hitting their marks, were making them listen, and he felt relief flood through him at the realization. Outwardly, he went on, "We want you to keep doing so, with the understanding that if the Avengers need aid, we can call on you for your help."

Luke shared a glance with Jessica, scrubbing a hand over his brow. "So, we're non-Avenger Avengers?"

"You need a better title, but pretty much, yeah," Stark retorted, shrugging once. Rand wet his lips with his tongue, tipping his head back and concentrating on the older man.

"And, if we need you?" he asked softly, flicking his gaze from him to the others.

"Call us, and we'll be there," the commander promised, and Rand blinked. No, it was not a promise; Murdock, from across the room, could hear in his voice the absolute honesty. It was a statement of fact, and he wanted them all to know it. "We all have the same goals. You're just more...localized."

"What do we get out of this?" Cage cut in, refusing to give the deal any credence before he could figure that out. It was the moment for Stark to step in again, the billionaire ticking off the perks that would await them on his fingers.

"Immunity, for starters. The access to the Oracle grid beyond what little hacks you've been able to implement. The ability to continue working for the good without the added risks you've been running. You'll have the typical risks, but you won't have to worry about Johnny Law breathing down your necks constantly. Upgrades to whatever equipment you have or need."

Rogers nodded, and then declared, "Again, there's no obligation to take the offer. If you don't, though, we can't help you. You stay stuck in the shadows, far longer than can be of any help to anyone. You might get caught, arrested...taken off the streets that need you for a long time, even if there is any intervention."

The fiery redhead, who had been silent during banter and the speeches, claimed her place before them, her chin lifting and the posture of her form unyielding.

"This isn't just your fight. It doesn't have to be, at least."

Another long silence came, the summoned four surreptitiously glancing at one another and mulling over the offer silently. Apart, they had been able to do some good for the city, but...it was not enough. Together, there was a potential to do so much more, and that rang true deep within each one of them. The lawyer, patting down his side-swept locks, inhaled deeply, treading nearer to the captain-turned-commander and screwing up his brow.

"Do you have anything formalize this agreement? Or is this a 'your word, your bond' situation?" Murdock wondered, an eyebrow quirking above his dark glasses and the corners of his mouth twitching. "Because there are far too many loopholes that could be exploited, if this is the latter."

Acknowledging the point, Stark crossed the room slowly to him, a thin card in hand. It resembled a key card for hotels or high security points, but the raised bumps on it and the microchip was invisible. Pressing it into the other fellow's grasp, he glanced back at Rogers. The blond dipped his chin, and then the tech genius cleared his throat.

"Stop by Avengers Tower tomorrow, ten in the morning," he started, looking to the gathered folks in the room. "Go to the back door, give the code 0522008 at the speaker. In your case, Mr. Murdock, slide this card in." Matt Murdock said nothing to that, but he did pocket the card and cocked his head, as if he could size up the billionaire. Stepping away, Tony tucked his hands into his pockets and went on, "Then take the first elevator to the right, and keep going until you get to the thirty-seventh floor. Once you give that code, you're in. Other paperwork will follow once you get to Floor 37, but otherwise, we'll take that as your formal agreement."

"We'll be there, too. If you choose to, we'll see you tomorrow."

The Black Widow let her brow arch, a single hand rising in farewell before she pivoted on her heel. The commander and the tech genius departed in silence, leaving the four within to weigh their options and decide where they belonged. Or if they felt they did.

"Think they'll take it?" Natasha asked her commanding officer, matching his pace as they crossed the busy street and through an alley, the warehouse fading behind them.

"We'll see," Steve intoned, heading over to the commissioned SUV parked at the nearby corner. Scanning the busted meter, he frowned and canted his head before climbing behind the wheel. Stark clambered into the back, while Romanoff took shotgun, and he blew out a fast breath.

"I hope they do. Just for the training opportunities." His dark eyes glimmered in the lamplight reflecting through the windows, his hands coming up and rubbing together in embellished excitement. "I'd love to flesh out some protocols for the sight-impaired ninja master up there."

The redhead riding passenger scoffed aloud, while the blond man behind the wheel snickered and started up the car.

"I'd love to see Jones take a parking meter to your head, in the name of training, once she's frustrated enough," Natasha muttered, pulling out her phone and tapping at the screen. Rogers could barely suppress the smirk threatening to bloom on his lips, while Stark appeared to think about that possibility for a few moments. As the blond man lit the signal and pulled the SUV out into traffic, he caught Tony shaking his head in rearview mirror, fingers flicking in the air as he sat back.

"And the bright side is, there might be more, local playmates for the trainee," he stated. Steve raised a finger off the wheel, shooting a quick look at the mirror.

"Let's wait and see what they can do before involving Parker, okay?" Off Stark's grunt, he inhaled deeply and murmured, "At least for safety's sake, if nothing else."

Tony brushed it off, responding with, "Fair enough, _Dad_."

"Y'know, that's not really an insult, Tony. You're losing your touch," Steve shot back. Romanoff hunkered down in her seat, admonishments for both of them to can it falling from her lips without her looking away from her screen. Together, the two men nodded, silence reigning in the vehicle as they sped across the city and back to the Avengers Tower, ready to wait and see if their offer was accepted.

 **xXxXxXx**

The back door loomed before her, the Tower stretching high above Manhattan's streets. Flicking back her dark hair, Jessica Jones breathed out heavily as she stalled. The offer from the night before, the appearance of the Avengers, had nagged her all the way to sunrise. She'd not expected it, had been blindsided almost, and it was a feeling she had always hated.

All night, she had struggled with the decision. Could she trust these people, really? Could she trust the others she was being brought in to work with, potentially? Luke was one thing, Murdock another, and Rand...she barely knew him. The innocence he radiated still, even after the supposed things he'd done stated in the media, did not sit well with her. How could they make it work, together?

How could they afford not to? Stark and Rogers had explicitly stated that their time, for all four of them, was running out. Soon enough, something worse would rock the city, and their involvement could be stymied, or cut off, by technicality and mischance. Luck, such as it was (not something she believed it, but seemed to have sway in instances like that), would only keep them going for so long.

And she would not operate on that blind faith. She couldn't afford to, not for herself or the people she needed to help.

Raising her chin, she stepped closer to the door, eyebrows inclining as panels in the wall slid back. A digital keyboard awaited her code, and she typed it in with alacrity. A small, pinhole camera sat upon it, and as she peered down at it, she narrowed her eyes.

"Ms. Jones, welcome to Avengers Tower," a smooth, accented voice echoed around her, making her jump back. She frowned, tucking back a piece of her loose hair in annoyance. She'd heard rumors about the tech genius and his penchant to use virtual presences around him, but she had not thought she would be greeted by one. Awkwardly, she cleared her throat as it continued, "Mr. Stark and Commander Rogers are upstairs as per their promises yesterday. Feel free to enter whenever you're ready."

The door clicked open then, automatic hydraulics swinging the panel inward. Straightening up, Jessica merely spiked an eyebrow at the display one last time before entering the building. The security points, few though they were, were easily passed, guards at their stations nodding to her and gesturing to the bank of elevators she had to go to. She had cross floors once, but soon enough, she found her way to the 37th floor, exiting onto hardwood that made her boot heels ring. The walls were glass, revealing the long conference room there, filled with the people she'd encountered the evening before. In the light of day, they all looked so...normal, she mused silently, stepping through the door after a fraction of hesitation. Several sets of eyes darted up, from Rand ( who had a brought a lawyer, one he insistently referred to as 'J-Money') to Luke and all the way to Romanoff, and she inhaled silently.

They all looked normal, save for the break in their gazes. It was something she could recognize immediately. It was mirrored back at her every morning. Stiffening her spine, she nodded to them all, soft greetings passed around. Her fellows, as it appeared, had taken seats at the long, wooden table in the center of the room, a sheaf of papers in front of each one. Pens were settled atop them, their agreement plain to her eyes. Last one to arrive, but not the least.

The lawyer who had arrived with Rand had declared that the agreement put forth by the Avengers was sound, and if she wished at that moment to renege on her coded agreement, now would be the last chance for her to do so. Nodding once, Jessica listened to her go on for a few more moments, gathering courage before she pressed further into the room.

"I'm not into your super-squad, still. Just for your information," she declared to the commander and his teammates as she strode up to the table, taking a seat next to Murdock. A stack of papers were pushed over to her, and she leveled a stare at Stark, the Rogers, and finally on Romanoff. The commander's blue eyes revealed nothing but sincerity, the Black Widow's had nothing to offer, and the tech genius merely smirked at her before she looked down at her packet. Perusing them briefly, she found that in them, all that had been promised the previous day had been laid out. Everything, from the immunity to even identity protection, had been addressed. No doubt they'd long been planning the confrontation. If only they had stepped in earlier, she mused acerbically. However, there was nothing to be gained from that mindset; they'd all done what they could, and she doubted that how things had gone down in the past would've been altered if they'd known what he...well. It didn't signify, not then. It was too many months on, and there was too much work to be done. Flipping to the final page, whereupon sat a dotted line that awaited her signature and dating, she let out a slow breath.

"And don't expect me to go running around in one of your creepy catsuits," she maintained, scribbling fast as though the pen scalded her. Commander Rogers finally cracked a grin, the corners of his mouth curving even as he ducked his head.

"We don't expect to change your point of view, Ms. Jones," he told her, shrugging a shoulder when she spiked an eyebrow at him. "We just want to make things work a bit more smoothly."

"Hmm," was her only retort, leaning back in her chair and taking a long look at her new compatriots. Murdock tilted his head in the way that he had, that indicated that he was attempting to look back. Rand sat silently, his face stony and his hands now folded in his lap. And Luke...Luke's eyes were glittering, almost mischievously as his mouth quirked, the grin he was attempting to suppress barely bitten back. Maybe it would go smoothly, if they could at least agree on working together. It could happen.

The Black Widow came forward then, reaching across the table to scoop up their signed contracts. When she grabbed Jessica's she smirked and shot her a careful wink.

"And no catsuits are required," she murmured in a low tone, raising up three fingers in a promising salute. Jones felt her lips curve up, and she shrugged again, accepting the terms as full then as when she'd signed. He fellow beside her leaned closer, and she bent to listen to his confidential expression.

"Better get that in writing," Murdock muttered, the teasing tone in his voice making him smile to himself. She smothered another grin, keeping her face as stoic as possible as Romanoff and Rogers discussed getting copies to them, as well as communicators and other equipment to get them fully in the loop. Meanwhile, the tech genius veritably bounced on his heels, pleased that everything had gone so smoothly.

"Got a name for yourselves yet?" Stark asked then, bracing his hands on the table. All four of the newcomers looked in his direction, one sporting a look of pure irritation while the others held onto mild surprise and disbelief. Canting his head, he goaded, "C'mon, I know at least one of you has thought about it."

Murdock's eyebrows inclined, while Cage passed a hand over his brow. To her everlasting amusement, Jessica spotted Rand shifting almost guiltily in his seat, his demeanor stolid even as the commander discreetly rolled his eyes.

"We'll get back to you on that," the man know as the Devil of Hell's Kitchen replied, palm flat on the table as he pushed his chair back. Deftly, he folded out the cane that had been stashed in the pocket of his jacket, nodding in the direction of the Avengers. Luke and Rand glanced at one another, not a word spoken as they followed Murdock's example. Rogers went up to each of them, extending his hand for a shake, Jones bringing up the rear and eyeing them all carefully.

Maybe, just maybe it would work out.

If not, she'd find a way around it. She just hoped it wouldn't come to that. They all would, one way or another.

* * *

 **A/N:** And now, touching on the Defenders a little bit. Wanted to at least get more of a connection between the universes—television and film—and I figured that, had the Avengers not lost their marbles, they probably would've had contact with these four at some point. Maybe.

Also, I wanted to let you guys know that we are officially two chapters away from the end of _In Due Course_. However, as I had mentioned before, I do intend to start a fifth installment immediately after this one. In, I intend to cover the Infinity War, along with a few other things. I'll get more into detail on that when the transition comes, but I thought it would be best to warn you all ahead of time that it is coming soon!

And finally, I have also started another modern, real-world AU starring Steve and Holly. It is called _Down the Hall_ , and you can find it under the My Stories tab on my page. Check it out if you haven't yet! Like with _Four Seasons_ , there will be slow updates, since my prime focus will be the Of Times series, but I will try to be as prompt as I can with it.

I won nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	23. Chapter 23

The farmhouse was in a flurry that morning, odds and ends of the household being cleaned up and packed away. Clint Barton, and his wife Laura, had meant to get a head start on the work days ago, but as life with a decent-sized family generally went, they hadn't had the time until that day. Once breakfast was finished, they gone about getting the dishes washed and the table cleared off, but there was more to be done besides that. With Nate secured in his little fenced-in play area in the family room, Clint charged his daughter with picking up her toys and books. Tidying up the den, he glanced over at his eldest son, parked on the couch as he had been since scarfing down his cereal.

"C'mon, Coop, shake a leg," he commanded gently, tapping his shoulder and compelling him to listen. "We've got guests coming."

Cooper looked up from his Gameboy, eyebrows scrunching in confusion.

"Aunt Nat and Bucky?" he guessed aloud, not recalling who his parents had invited to the house. They'd mentioned having guests a couple of days ago, but he'd promptly put it out of his mind. Immediately he shook his own head at his guess; Mom and Dad always told them when Aunt Nat would come visit. And Bucky, well, he wasn't someone they would just neglect to tell them about, either. Falling upon another answer, he shifted in his seat and coughed, "Katie—erm, Miss Bishop?"

Bright eyes scanned over him as he ducked his head, returning his attention to his game. He was not able to hide the circles of pink flaring in his cheeks, and Barton was hard-pressed to keep a mirthful chuckle to himself. He'd thought that Cooper might have admired Kate when she'd come out to the house for those few months before receiving placement with the Avengers. He still seemed to carry a bit of a torch for her, despite not having been in company for over a year. Her call a few days ago might've awakened the old crush. Sadly, he would have to disappoint the teenager in that regard.

"Not this time," Clint told his son, shooing him off the couch with the command of helping his mom tidy up the rest of the kitchen and dining area. Groaning, the newly-minted teen dropped his gaming device onto the coffee table after saving, hands wiped on the sides of his shorts as he grumbled under his breath. With his boy fully engaged in the clean-up, the house was ready within the hour. And that was none too soon, since right after Lila had shoved the last of her art supplies in the craft drawers in the office, the rumble of a truck could be heard coming up the drive. The crunch of gravel was a welcome sound to his ears, and Clint bade his family to stay inside as he greeted the new arrivals.

Stepping out the door and onto the front porch, the older man waved as the black Dodge pulled up. Their guests had been working their way to their part of the country for the last few days. Some time had been spent in Minnesota before they made their way there. Clint was glad they had taken him up on his offer; they hadn't been on a real vacation in quite awhile, and he imagined they would look forward to their last days of anonymous travel before heading home being spent with friends. Since they'd already been with family, of course.

Descending the steps and cutting across the yard, Barton grinned as the vehicle was parked and the driver got out. Beneath the black ball cap, he could see the bright eyes of the fellow taking in the property, a long sigh exhaled as he rolled back his shoulders and pulled himself up to his full height in a stretch.

Despite the road weariness, and the exhaustion, Steve Rogers looked pretty good.

"Welcome back, Captain Rogers," Clint said, thumbs tucked into his pockets as the summer sun beat down upon them. Idly, Steve lifted his hat, scratching at his scalp before setting it back down and grinning.

"Been awhile since I've heard that," he murmured, eyebrows inclining at his old friend.

"Gotten a big head, huh, Commander?" Clint ribbed him, striding up to him and exchanging a fast, one-armed hug with the bigger fellow. Once they'd rapped one another on the back and stepped away from each other, he looked across the hood. With the back door of the truck slamming shut, the young brunette woman there stepped into view, a sandy-haired baby on one hip and her free hand tugged on. Being dragged forward, she flashed a weary smile over to both men, rolling her eyes down to the corgi pulling at the lead. Beckoning her forward with a snicker, Clint murmured, "C'mere, Gracie Lou, it's been awhile."

Holly's smile became warmer as the old nickname registered, and at once she trotted over to him. Passing the leash and little Bonnie into her husband's care, her arm wound around Barton's back, his slinging around her shoulders and drawing her in for a quick hug.

"Clint," she greeted him, tired happiness in her expression as she looked him over. The older man looked well; the crow's feet by his eyes were more pronounced, as well as the creases around his mouth, but it was easy to tell that was dude to laughter and being joyful than anything else. His time away from the Avengers, with his family, had definitely done him some good. Hoisting up Grant a little higher, she bade the baby to say hello, too. At once, Clint bent a little at the waist, chattering to the little guy and affording Holly a moment to examine the property. The fields surrounding the farmhouse, a bean crop if she identified it correctly, were coming in green and healthy. The farmhouse stood tall in the wide yard, the trim bright against the pale yellow. Spying a few outbuildings, as well as hearing the distant clucking of chickens and lone low of a cow, she felt her eyebrows jump up. When she felt Clint's eyes flick to her, she nodded toward his home and lifted a shoulder. "I, this is...not what I was expecting."

Barton's eyes glimmered, his lips curling to a sardonic grin.

"That seems to be the general consensus for newcomers," he stated quietly, straightening up. Flapping a hand at the house, he said, "Let's get you all inside, and worry about your stuff later."

Eagerly, Holly followed, her free hand enclosed around her husband's as they went into the farmhouse. A rush of cool air hit them as they tripped past the door, and she breathed out a swift sigh of relief. She'd been in old farmhouses that did not have blessed air conditioning, and she was terribly glad that the Bartons had found a way to have it installed.

"Laura, they're here," Clint called out in the entry, and shortly afterward, light, quick steps thumped against the floor. When Laura Barton came around the corner, the younger woman managed a tremulous grin. Brown eyes a shade or two lighter than her own were set in an oval face, a few creases coming at the corner of her eyes as she smiled. Her long, dark hair was gathered into a side braid, and the glow that been around her two years ago had not abated.

"Hello, there," she said, shaking Steve's hand first. To Holly, she did the same, though her smile turned a bit brighter. "It's really good to finally meet you."

Rounding through the arch to the couch and chairs in the small living area, she asked after them both, about how the trip down had been. According to Holly, it had been something of an adventure. Cutting across the country for a couple of days with a nearly one-year-old baby who hated car rides was almost an effort in futility, atop needing to stop to let the little corgi (released at their hosts' insistence and nosing in the corners with interest) walk and take of her needs. However, compared to the rush and hubbub at the base, Steve had interjected, it was a bit easier to deal with than that. Her parents had taken them in for a few days, their second wedding anniversary celebrated in due course with a trip into Minneapolis and wandering around there—despite the construction and the sculpture garden in the process of being set up once more. Showing off pictures of them all posing by the Cherry and the Spoon, it seemed that their departure for the Barton homestead was far more quiet than the other had been. At that point, the children came into the room, Lila chasing after Nathaniel and Cooper resting against the arch as they said hello to their guests. The little girl was pleased to see Steve again, remembering him from the brief stay during the Ultron debacle and his interest in her paintings. She fetched up a couple to show him, while the eldest boy found an old tennis ball and tossed it for Bonnie to fetch.

Little Nate strode right up to Holly and Grant, waving in greeting and crowing his hellos at his parents' prompting. Carefully, Grant was set on his feet in front of the other little boy, big eyes taking each other in. In short order, Nate held out his hand to the younger toddler, Grant smiling and grabbing at it. Slowly, their tiny, jerky steps were made to the toy bin under the window, both of them flopping down and playing with a pair of horses Nate had dug out. With the little ones thoroughly occupied, it left the adults a bit of time to scrounge up the next meal.

After lunch had been drummed up and digested, the various occupants of the house went their separate ways. Clint elected to wash the dishes as Laura took a minute to catch up on her emails. The two older kids went outside with the corgi, securing her to the staked leash that they helped set up in the side yard. While Steve went about setting up Grant's sleeping arrangements in the upstairs bedroom, Holly took the little boys out onto the porch, a few toys laid out for them to share as she relaxed into one of the Adirondack chairs. Leaning back into it, she let the heat and humidity of the day soak into her, her body still grateful to be out of the truck. They'd been up early to make it in good time, leaving the hotel they'd stayed in time to catch breakfast through the drive-through on their way out. It had been a long time since she'd been on any form of road trip, and for some parts of it, she knew then how much she preferred air travel.

Inwardly, she chided herself for the remnants of her attitude. The trip that had been embarked upon could very well be their last for some time. The idea had occurred to Steve, a day or two after his return from the city. They hadn't traveled as a family since Christmas, and it irked him. Though he wasn't in the field often anymore, he did still put in a lot of time and effort into his job. Training recruits, going through team exercises, meetings with Hill and Hawley, Fury and Chapman...it could get maddening. And Holly, too, did not have it much easier. While he still had the occasional meeting and mission away from home, she did not. She was left behind, as was their son, and he didn't want them to feel like they'd never go anywhere or do anything of their own volition. When he proposed the idea, she couldn't help but agree, the time taken off and their truck packed just in time for them to take off on the 27th.

It was hard to believe it was the third of July, with the stops at diners and rest areas fresh in her memory, along with the few days spent with her parents. As consuming as traveling could be, she had enjoyed it, enjoyed the anonymity that it had given them (ball caps and sunglasses galore, and hustling out of places before recognition could set in once bills had been paid).

Still, she was glad for the rest, glad to take a moment outside of the vehicle and listen to her baby boy gabble onto the other toddler, their mishmash of words joined with the backtrack of Bonnie yipping at Lila's giggles.

A throat cleared beside her, and she glanced up at the man who had interrupted her train of thought. Clint had finished with the dishes, his hands tucked into his pockets and an easy grin on his lips. Resting against the balustrade nearest, he and Holly exchanged a few words: what he'd been up to in recent days, how her second novel was coming (it was going slowly, but the publishers and her agent seemed pleased with what she'd produced thus far). Silence fell between them, Nate and Grant filling it as the older boy galloped a cow into the younger's plastic pig.

"You been keeping up, kiddo? With what I taught you, I mean?" Barton asked after a few moments. He eyed her warily as she stiffened, her brown gaze darting away. "Wax on, wax off, and everything?"

"Not like I should," she confessed after a few seconds, fiddling with the hem of her shorts. Shrugging a shoulder, she cast a glance at the toddlers playing before her. "It's a little hard, between work and wrangling the little guy and the dog...and Steve."

Clint's eyes lit up, and he did not bother to smother a laugh at her slight tease. "Of course."

Canting her head, she took in a deep breath. "I've, I've been reviewing a few things, but...not what I should. At-home yoga kinda took over."

Eyebrows inclined as the older man sat down upon the railing nearby. "Really? Didn't know that was your thing."

"Necessity," she stated bluntly, a corner of her mouth curving. The pregnancy weight had to be lost somehow, and after several months of work, she'd managed to shed a good portion of it. Some of it was still settled around her hips (and in her chest and butt, though she was the only one annoyed by it; her husband was decidedly not of the same mindset). Glancing down at Grant and little Nate as they passed toys to one another, she joked, "Not all of us can have a cracked-out metabolism and be fit after tons of pizza and beer, sadly."

"Amen, sister." Bright eyes slid sideways, sizing her up in the peripherals. When she turned a quizzical look on him, Clint tipped his head towards a clear patch of yard, offering, "Need a brush-up?"

Her eyes widened at the suggestion. A thousand excuses tore through her mind: she wasn't ready, she hadn't engaged in self-defense in so long, she just wanted to rest...

Poor excuses, she told herself. Poor excuses, and she wouldn't let them hold her back. Not that day, not when her old instructor was on hand. It would do her some good, to at least solidify the basics in her mind once again. Unwrapping the band around her wrist and gathering up her loose hair into a ponytail, she sniffed.

"...Couldn't hurt," she said, bending down to give her baby a peck on his forehead before rising to her full height. Going over to the front door, she called for Steve to come out and watch the boys for her and Clint. As he complied, the bigger fellow spiked an eyebrow at her, sitting down in the chair she vacated and watching as she and Clint stepped over to the cleared side yard. A couple basic blocks were practiced first, a few escapes demonstrated for the benefit of her memory. Ever couple of minutes, Steve would pitch his own two cents, craning his neck to watch even as he pulled Nate back from the balustrade and stopped him from sticking his head between the slats.

A good half hour had passed by the time Laura had exited the house, drawn by the occasional grunts and huffed cries from the yard. Still, she detoured over to where the big, blond man was sitting.

"Hey, how is he?" she asked him, nodding down her own son. Nate glanced up at her, stating rather imperially that he was fine. Steve chuckled at that.

"Just fine," he reiterated for the little one. Dipping his chin at the pair of toddlers, he continued, "Seems the boys are getting along famously."

Laura's heart warmed at the sight. Though she tried her best, she couldn't always get her youngest out to play with children near his age. Little Grant took to his companionship like a duck to water, even after a few short hours, and it pleased her to see her little boy making friends. Sighing, she bent an combed the errant locks atop Nate's head to lie flat, before she hooked a thumb over her shoulder to the side yard.

"How long have they been at it?" she wondered, straightening and turning to watch the show as well. Clint had shucked off the flannel he'd been wearing earlier (crazy for the middle of summer, but he wouldn't do without it that morning), his pants scuffed with grass stains and dirt. Holly's own attire was similarly stained, though she seemed to also have blades of grass in her hair as well. Steve's sharp gaze locked onto them as Barton went in for a headlock, which the younger woman managed to squirm out of.

"Thirty minutes, maybe a bit over. Move your feet, sweetheart!"

Holly had only a few seconds to respond to that, the bird she flipped Steve gone in a flash as she braced herself for Barton's next move. He swung an arm, his stride lengthening as he did so. And with that move he opened himself up, allowed himself a weakness that could be taken advantage of.

"Oh! Clint, be—" Her warning fell short as a well-aimed kick behind his knee made him fall to the ground. With a growl, Holly got an arm around his throat, her legs squeezing around his waist from behind and her weight thrown full onto him. As they went down in a heap, Laura jumped a bit. For not being in practice for several months, Holly had finally managed to get one over on the older man. She'd remembered her training well, it seemed. The older woman felt a surge of pride take her over, for both the young brunette and for her husband for teaching her to do so. Shrugging a shoulder, she crossed her arms over her chest and grinned ruefully. "Well, then, never mind. Good for her."

Steve, still watching as the pair in the side yard got off the ground and exchanged congratulatory fist bumps as they caught their breath, grinned as well.

"Yeah," he concurred, scooping Grant up then and walking out of the shelter of the porch to the yard. Bringing the little guy to his mommy to commend her work, he smirked to himself when Laura did the same with Nate and Clint. With the training bout finished, they all repaired to the other side of the house, content to spend the remainder of the afternoon with the older children and the dog cantering there.

 **xXxXxXx**

The Fourth of July, however outrageous and boisterous it could be, had started off quietly. Well, relatively quietly, at least. As the sun broke over the horizon and rose ever-higher, its light pierced over and through the tree breaks surrounding the Barton homestead. With the beams barely muted by curtains, the occupants of the house began to respond to the coming day and wake. Some, however, were still abed, a state of affairs that Clint Barton was all too used to. After two full years of being home with his family, he had learned how difficult it was to get his children out of bed. He was tasked with the job as Laura started breakfast, little Nate in his chair and playing with some toys at the table as she did so. Detouring toward the coffee carafe, Clint carefully filled two mugs, bringing them up the stairs with him. First, he stopped off by Lila's door, tapping the panels gently with his foot and calling out to her to get up. After a couple of seconds, the door cracked open, a tangled bedhead and bleary brown eyes blinking up at him as Lila shuffled by, saying good morning to her father as she went downstairs. Smiling to himself, he maneuvered around to the second set of stairs, getting to the top of the landing in time for Cooper to lumber out, his comforter still wrapped around him and a yawn his greeting. Relieved that, for once, his son was up on his own accord, the ex-Avenger stepped lightly down the hall. The door of the spare room was latched, but he managed to get it open before long.

The click of the air conditioning resounded as Clint entered the room, the buzz of the small oscillating fan on the work table accompanying it. Upon entering, the clink of tags rattled, the little corgi settled on the folded blankets on the floor awake and panting upon spotting him. She rose and pattered over to him, sniffing at his shins before rocketing out the open door. In the padded playpen, he could see little Grant was awake, sucking on his pacifier and bouncing his favored stuffed sheep toy as he sat up. Shaking his head lightly, Barton finally glanced over to the pair of adults still asleep in the bed. Steve was deep in dreams, his back to his compatriot and one leg above the sheet. Beside him, Holly was face down, arms wrapped around her pillow and her shoulders rising with each breath she took. One palm was splayed along her back, her husband still reaching out for her even in sleep. The tableau they presented was peaceful, calm.

Pity that he had to be the one to break it, Clint thought with delightful sarcasm.

Balancing on one foot with ridiculous poise (it may have taken him fifteen years and a certain redheaded assassin to give him tips, but he'd learned), the older man stretched out his foot, his toes nudging into Rogers' spine and causing a snuffling snort to rip out of the blond. Snickering, he readjusted his stance and did it again, the snort louder as Steve shook his head and sat up partially. The spikes of his blond hair stuck out in every direction, and his bleary blue eyes immediately scanned the room for the intruder. Barton smirked once the bright gaze fell upon him, and the commander's jaw ticked in annoyance.

"Rise and shine, valentine," the former Avenger greeted him, his voice laced with false sweetness.

Steve flopped back down onto the bed, his eyes rolling as he did so. Turning his face into his pillow, his groaning was muffled.

"Get out, Barton."

Footsteps retreated from the bedside, clinks of mugs being set on the dresser following afterward. Hoping that Clint would take the not-so-subtle hint and do as he wished, Steve would soon learn that he was to be disappointed. Instead, the crinkle of paper cut through the air, and his brow scrunched in befuddlement. Before he could open his eyes and ask what was going on, the footsteps came again, stamping up to the bed once more. A whoosh, and then a blossom of muted pain flashed across his back side. Jerking and grunting in total irritation, Steve turned over and looked up as Clint smothered a laugh. In his hand was a rolled-up magazine, clearly having used it to dole out the blow. Holly, having been shaken awake as well by the proceedings, shot both her husband and their friend an evil look, pointedly smacking Steve's flank and launching her pillow straight into Clint's face. The ex-agent caught it as it hit him, dropping it and the magazine to the floor while grinning madly. Frustrated, the young woman buried her face against her arms, while her husband sat up and grumbled about it being far too early in the day for that brand of assault. The sandy-haired man shook his head, cutting off the commander's remarks with a sharp wave.

"C'mon, it's not like you're not up earlier than this most days, anyway," he countered Steve's annoyed grunts. Coming up to the other man's side, he reached out and clapped him on the shoulder, pulling away before the blond could swat at him. Flapping his hand, he bade him, "Off your ass, soldier. There's breakfast to eat."

As the other man scrubbed his hands over his face, Barton took the opportunity to make his way around to the other side of the bed. Gently, he reached down and tugged at the sleep of Holly's sleep shirt, her sharp breaths ignored as he did so.

"You, too, Gracie Lou."

A hand shot up from under her head, a single finger jabbing in Clint's general direction.

"Give coffee, or I kill you," Holly veritably growled, the mass of tangled, brunette waves around her face pushed back and revealing her harsh glare. The previous days exercises, atop the long drive to get to the farmhouse, had caught up with her, and she was less than pleased to still be feeling the effects.

"What, you think I'm an idiot?" Clint asked rhetorically, walking away before she had a chance to retaliate. Going to the dresser, he grabbed up one of the mugs of coffee he'd brought with, returning to her side swiftly. Carefully, he set down it on the nightstand within her reach, and he met her skeptical glance with his own satisfied one. "See? All ready for you."

Slowly, she pushed herself up, taking the mug and clutching it between her hands as she rested against the headboard.

"Still might kill you after," she muttered, bringing up the cup to her lips and drinking deeply. At once, the corners of her mouth twisted down, and she blinked as she peered at the dark liquid. "Blugh, straight black. How can anybody drink this?"

Steve snorted at that. "Could say the same thing about the confection you doctor up and call coffee, most days."

The muted glare she gave him spoke volumes, but she said nothing as she took another sip. Glancing over at the leftover mug, Clint hooked a thumb at it and looked back at Steve. His silent question was answered with a slight shake of the head; Steve didn't quite need the caffeine that morning. Since he wasn't about to have it, Barton went and scooped it up, downing a slug for himself.

"Drink up, girlie," he suggested to the younger brunette, the corner of his mouth curving. "Got a big, ol' star-spangled day ahead of us all."

On that note, he left the room, his task completed and his stomach already reprimanding him for not eating yet. Left to their own devices, the married couple in the bed let out twin sighs.

"Why did we come here again?" Steve asked, his lips curving and the tone in his voice teasing. Holly smirked back at him.

"To get away from crowds who would expect all of us to be on display the entire day," she pointed out, the blunt truth of it seeping out. Though they hadn't expressly told anyone about that part, she and Steve had endeavored to be away from the base and the East Coast to avoid the mess that came with his birthday being on Independence Day. Barton offering to shelter them for part of it had been an added bonus, in her mind; she'd missed the older fellow, same with Steve, and it was good to be there. Shrugging a shoulder, she continued, "Clint being the wake-up call isn't all that bad in comparison."

"True. Although it looks like one of us was already up," Steve noted, nodding over to the playpen. Holly followed his gaze, grinning tiredly as their son pulled himself up along the side of it, the mesh of the walls pressing back against his fingers as he went.

"Bah, dah!" Grant cried, standing up and smiling around the pacifier at his mommy and daddy. One little hand flew up, fingers curling at them in both a greeting and a wish for one of them to come over.

"Sneaky little bugger, keeping so quiet," Holly breathed, another sip of coffee taken before she sat the nearly-empty mug upon the nightstand. About to rise, she was stopped by Steve's hand planting firmly on her knee over the sheet.

"I'll get him," he offered, leaning over and kissing her firmly after she'd nodded. Pulling back after a few moments, Steve licked his lips, the bitter taste of the drink on his tongue. "Mm, coffee breath."

Holly snickered, her gaze dropping to his lips and her eyebrows inclining.

"Dragon breath," she countered, an amused gleam coming into her irises when Steve cupped a hand over his mouth. Leaning closer once more, she dropped a peck on his cheek before getting up. Sipping at the dregs in her mug, she went over to Grant, smiling broadly at their little boy and laughing when he screeched in delight. Promising that Mommy would see him soon, she pecked his chubby cheek, fingers carding through his hair before she grabbed up a sweatshirt and disembarked from the room. Mutters about taking Bonnie out before eating floated back to him, and the commander merely sighed as he pushed the covers completely off his legs, rising and grinning as Grant continued to curl his fingers at him, beckoning.

(When Holly came back in with the corgi, patting her down and letting the little dog give her kisses, she caught her husband balancing the baby in one arm as his toothbrush was clenched between his teeth.)

Breakfast itself was a bit of a noisy affair, with the littlest boys squawking back forth over their chopped-up pancake bites, Lila and Cooper sniping at each other underneath it. The adults at the table discussed the plans for the day. In the nearby village, the grounds of the elementary school had been given over for a small carnival. Mostly it was headed by the PTA, with games and other activities plotted out. With both of the older children being enrolled in the system for the fall (Clint and Laura had come to an understanding with their eldest to give a try for a year, and Lila insisted on it, then, too), it was deemed a good idea to attend for a couple of hours, just so they could acquaint themselves with the families that would come and ease the transition. There were supposed to be play areas for younger children as well, and so the Rogers family was invited to go with them, if they wished. Husband and wife looked to one another, silent words exchanged before Steve declared that would be happy to go along.

With the plan set, the breakfast dishes were gathered to either soak in the sink or be placed in the dishwasher, all of them repairing to their separate rooms to ready themselves. Steve, having experienced the joys of a private well not only at his home but at the farmhouse as well, reminded his wife about how quickly hot water could run out. Therefore, the most efficient use of it would be to shower together. Seeing through his pronouncement (the pink tinge of his ears and his sly grin giving him away immediately), Holly still agreed, underscoring how they would have to work fast then. Grant was secure in his playpen as they maneuvered into the cubicle, the space much smaller than their shower at home but perfectly serviceable. Despite needing to play 'beat the clock' against the water heater, and with their baby in the next room, they managed well enough, indeed.

Satisfied and clean, the pair separated to finish their morning ablutions. It was difficult, sharing the small sink as Steve shaved and Holly brushed her teeth—for the second time, since she'd indulged in an extra cup of coffee earlier—but they worked around one another as best they could. Clothes were gathered up and changed into, her shorts and tank top shoved on before she moved onto dressing the baby. Steve's jeans were buttoned over his boxer briefs and a plain white shirt about to follow suit over his torso.

However, Holly had something in mind for him to wear that day, and she swiftly snatched away the white tee. After digging around in her own bag, she gave a crow in triumph before shaking it out. When she held out the t-shirt to him, he huffed out a sarcastic laugh.

"You cannot be serious," he muttered, looking at the charcoal-colored shirt. Stamped across it—in red, white, and blue, of course—was the phrase, 'My Favorite Color is Freedom', the stark letters standing out proudly on the chest. When he spiked his brow, she snorted audibly.

"Oh, come on! Lighten up, grouchy," she admonished him, looking down at the shirt herself briefly. Holding out again, she insisted, "It's funny, and wearing stuff like this will actually make you stick out less."

Opening his mouth, his bright gaze ran over her own get-up. The red and white flowing top, interspersed with stars, was a little more showy than what she was offering him. And poor Grant was no better, with the little Old Glory-themed bucket hat on his head and his blue-starred shirt encasing him. She did have a point, and he could admit to it; not going with the theme of the holiday could potentially draw undue attention onto them. Much as he wished otherwise, he concluded that it would probably be best to go along with the plan presented. Besides, it was less obnoxious than some other holiday-specific clothes he'd seen before.

"...Okay, fine," he agreed after a few moments, taking the shirt from her hands and pulling it on. Brushing it down, he spread his arms, the silent question of its suitability on his face. Holly smiled, nodding in contentment. Taking the baby from her, he talked to the little guy about the big day they would have, letting her take the time to separate her hair into two braids. As she threaded the strands and tied them off, she couldn't help but sneaking looks at her boys. Grant would chime in every few seconds, but Steve continued to talk, his brow furrowing a bit as he did. Something in his face seemed to twitch when he mentioned how many people might be there, if the little man would be making friends, and she meandered back into the bedroom, sitting down beside him on the bed as he put Grant on the ground. The little guy stamped away, a couple of fingers shoved into his mouth as she scrutinized her husband's expression.

"Hey. Are you okay with this?" she asked him softly. Though he'd consented to the plan of going out to explore the nearby town with the Bartons, she knew he may not have necessarily wanted to do so. The martyr complex he adopted at times could've been rearing its head at that moment, wanting to keep the peace and sacrifice his own comfort for them. She knew how claustrophobic public settings could be for him; once people realized who he was, such situations had the ability to spiral into a wave of call-outs and demands for pictures, autographs, and other things. His experience with the USO tour and with journalists in the past had given him the tools to be better prepared for it, but he didn't always like it.

And not only that. While it was his birthday, Independence Day was tough enough to deal with. Extensive therapy did not entirely rid him of his latent fears brought on by the war and his current work (she doubted it ever really would). Once somebody got it in their heads to blow up fireworks prematurely, it could trigger all of that, despite his progress.

Her palm smoothed over his back, the cotton of his shirt brushing against her skin as she went.

"We don't have to go, if you don't want to," she assured him, the promise in her voice ringing true. She would be just as happy to spend the day at the farm instead, so long as she was with him and their boy. Lifting a shoulder, she murmured, "We can just stay here, hang out. Make friends with the cow."

His mouth curved into the familiar half-smile that always got to her.

"Bessie is a sweetheart," he conceded jokingly. Looking up at her, his grin softened, and he patted her knee. "No, it's alright. We'll go."

"You sure?" she asked him once more, watching him carefully for any sign of discomfort. When all she received was a nod and a smile, she dipped her own chin, rubbing her palm over his back. "Okay, then. Good to know the shirt won't go to waste."

He barked out a laugh then, shaking his head as he rose from the mattress. Wandering over to the craft table by the window, he placed their diaper bag on it, shuffling through the contents and deciding what would and would not come with them. Treats for the baby, as well extra diapers and toys disappeared into it. Soon enough, Holly was gathering up Grant, Steve trailing after them with the bag as they went back downstairs. Calling to Bonnie, the little corgi pattered up to them, almost bouncing as her owners gave her little hugs farewell. She would be staying behind, a portion of the barn cordoned off for her use (a bowl of water and some food had already been put in there, so she would be covered, along with a rope toy and a chewy bone). As Holly took her over to it, bouncing her baby boy on her hip as she went, Steve paused on the porch, walking over to Clint as he checked his phone. The blond man stifled a chuckle; Barton hadn't fared much better in the shirt department himself, as his sported a picture of George Washington with aviator glasses on, and the words 'Party Like a Patriot' inscribed below.

When Barton glanced, he had a grin of his own on his lips.

"Wives are fun, aren't they?" he asked Rogers, gesturing at him and laughter shooting out as the commander scratched the back of his neck.

"They're somethin', alright."

Laura came out then, having swapped her pajamas for denim shorts and a stars-and-stripes patterned shirt, eyeing them both up curiously as little Nate walked beside her. Like Grant, he too had been forced into themed clothing, his older siblings dressed in that way as well. Lila, however, took great delight in her Old Glory dress, and Cooper actually didn't have a problem with his own flag tee. Once Holly and Grant returned from settling in Bonnie ("And we stopped to give Bessie a few pats," the young mother had confessed, her little boy clapping his hands at her words), the families repaired to their separate vehicles. The Rogers truck followed behind the Bartons' SUV, the fields and trees of the country giving way to the first signs of the village twenty minutes later. Winding through the charming ranch houses and craftsman cottages, past the Dairy Queen and through Main Street, they found the elementary school. The yellow brick building stretched out, a good number of small children and their parents loitering on the sidewalk. Driving down a side street for parking, they caught glimpses of the little carnival as they went, red and blue balloons tied to playground equipment easily sighted.

As the Barton and Rogers families parked and got out, they were stalled for a few moments, the fathers of the outfit rummaging in their separate cabs until they found the last pieces of their ensembles. As they donned them, Laura rolled her eyes and snorted.

"You dorks and your ball-caps and sunglasses," she intoned, her dark gaze darting from her husband to Holly's. The two men glanced at each other; Steve spiked an eyebrow above his aviators, and Clint merely adjusted his wraparounds before fixing his cap. Tugging on the bill of his own, Steve ducked in to get Grant out of his seat, while his wife opened her arms wide to the other woman.

"Thank you!" she crowed, deep satisfaction on her face as she fetched up the diaper bag. Hooking a thumb over the hood of the truck, she told Laura, "You don't understand how little support I get on this."

The older brunette guffawed a bit, hoisting up Nate and beckoning her older children to follow. "Trust me, this is a committee I've been chairing for years."

"Really, we're gonna have to hear this crap again?" Barton groused back, shouldering their diaper bag and tromping after the ladies and the children. Patting Steve on the shoulder as they walked, he proceeded to lay his objection on thick. "I mean, it's the man's birthday today. I think he deserves a little respect and a reprieve for it."

Cottoning onto his spiel, the blond man nodded, daring to poke out his lower lip a bit when Holly turned to look at them.

"Yeah. Can't ya lay off just for today, honey?" he asked, bringing up Grant a little higher to rest his cheek against the little guy's. Pausing on their trek, the two women shared a look.

"Puppy dog eyes, and holding the baby. Can you hold up against that?" Laura asked her, the corner of her mouth ticking in the effort to hold back a grin. Holly looked back once more, and she let out a deep, put-upon sigh.

"No," she breathed, striding back to her husband and laying one hand on his chest. "Fine, I'll stop just for you, birthday boy."

Grinning widely at his victory, Steve bent his head to give her a kiss. However, Holly instead reached up and pinched his cheek, tugging until he shook his head hard enough to make her stop. The baby's giggles piled on with her own, and the two families continued to walk. Well, with the exception of Lila and Cooper, who were already ahead of them all. The teenager and the young girl looked back as their parents laughed, Mrs. Rogers joining in as the commander took her hand in his free one. The pair of them glanced to one another, and started walking again.

"Adults are weird," Lila muttered as they rounded the corner, the flood of sunlight and color greeting them as the carnival loomed.

"Yeah," Cooper agreed, lengthening his stride and forcing his sister to nearly run to keep up. Spying something across the playground, he pointed it out to her, intent on getting a few moments on his own. "Look, bubble wands, Lila."

An excited squeal tore out of her, and she ran towards the large wands dipped in soapy water before her parents could follow. Clint's eyebrows nearly hit his hairline as his son shrugged it off, the teenage boy wandering over to the shade trees bordering the property to find a seat. Shaking his head, he glanced at his wife, dipping his chin in the direction Lila had gone and going after her.

The carnival itself was light and fun. The blacktop areas surrounding the playground were dedicated to different activities, a raffle table set up near the entrance and a lollipop pull. A cakewalk was on hand, one of the recruited PTA members running the boom box as the engaged children went around and around. It clashed a bit with the dancing area near the slides, but it was endured well by the attending families. There was a ring toss game to play, as well as one called Gone Fishing, Lila bouncing from one activity to the next. Holly and Steve followed along, though they did take Grant over to the face painter at one point—the baby came away with a small star on his cheek, which scrunched up as he smiled and laughed. Nate had gotten one, too, and both boys poked each other's when they were within range.

There was a football toss for the kids, prizes awarded to those who could score a 'touchdown' through the painted wooden cutout. With Steve's height and build easy to spot, a couple kids begged him to give it a try. Complying, he deliberately held back on his strength, the football arching a little high and dinging off the board. Shrugging his shoulder, he merely murmured that it wasn't his sport, and the kids let him go—spotting his wife holding up her phone as well as the baby, he'd groaned aloud. A basketball hoop was cordoned off for a friendly competition between the younger children, but a number of balls had been left out for the older ones and even some parents to enjoy. Cooper, after a bit of shade sulking (as his mother called it), found his way to one of the games, a few boys his age there and letting him come into the game. There was a bounce house as well, something Clint more than willingly clambered into when Lila and Nate insisted on joining in.

In concession to the heat, small pools had been set up, cool water toted from inside the school to counteract the warmth of the standing water. It was mostly for the younger kids to cool down in as the July sun beat down on them, and it was something Laura and Holly had thought necessary to bring the little boys to. The pool they'd found, lime green and barely reaching up to Nate's bottom in height, was perfect, and so they let the little guys sit and splash around, water flying and giggles ringing. Laura, bracing Nate as he plopped down and swished in the water, watched Holly in her peripherals, a thought that had occurred to her the evening before coming to mind yet again.

"You're doing well, you know," Laura murmured, the splashes of the boys shielding her words a bit. Holly's head jerked up at that, her eyes squinting in confusion.

"Huh?"

Laura inclined her head, shuffling closer to her and keeping her voice low. "With everything: how you're doing, keeping up with your job and the little guy, and with Steve still serving."

It was a thought she'd long considered since Clint first told her about the young woman who'd captured Captain America's heart. Knowing firsthand how much strength she had to have just to be with someone like him, Laura felt smatterings of pride whenever word reached them about how she was doing. Still alive, still caring for her baby, still working and making a name for herself in the world (Laura had bought her book, once Clint had weaseled out the pseudonym from Steve, and she had rather liked it). And, well, she couldn't resist sharing any longer.

The younger woman gaped at her for a few moments, her stunned expression wavering only when Grant smashed his little fists in the water and sent droplets flying. Amidst his delighted giggles, she came back into herself, a bit of pink coloring her cheeks.

"Well, it's not like it used to be," she said, excusing the praise given. Her husband had given up the position of field leader, and was home with her and their boy far more than he had been in the past. She wasn't sure Laura's words were warranted. However, the older woman was not of the same mind as her.

"But he's still there, still an Avenger," she pointed out. Bringing up one hand, she laid it on Holly's shoulder. "And you should know, you're doing well."

The pink in Holly's face deepened, and she shook her head. "I don't, I...why..."

"Because I know what it's like, and it's nice to hear every once in awhile." A wealth of experience weighted Laura's speech. Years of acting like a single mother when she was not, of providing for her family on her own for months at a time while her husband was away, all resided in her tone. And she knew she was not the only one. SHIELD had employed hundreds of people like her husband, and she knew that many of them had partners just like her out there: waiting, hoping, praying for things to turn out alright and for her love to come home. And in the meantime, it was up to them to continue living, as well. Something, she knew, Holly was all too familiar with as well. Clearing her throat, she glanced across the playground. Lila was on one of the swings, her husband pushing her as Steve stood nearby, the two men exchanging banter in the meantime. Grinning to herself, she continued. "Not that Clint ever took me or what we have for granted, but it was weeks and months of me holding down a job, raising kids with parents over two hours away from us."

Out the corner of her eye, she could see the younger brunette had followed her gaze, and she shrugged a bit, patting her shoulder once more.

"It does some good, to hear someone else acknowledge the good you're doing, just so you know it, too."

A genuine smile broke over Holly's lips, and she dipped her chin. "Thanks, Laura."

Grinning back, Laura murmured, "Not a problem, Miss Gracie Lou."

"Oh, geez," Holly moaned, unable to hide the humorous glint in her eyes. Grant mimicked her noise before splashing again, and she chuckled, "Mister _and_ Missus Miyagi on my case with that. Fantastic."

By three o'clock, the Barton and the Rogers clans were ready to pack it in. All prepared to return to the farm, the Bartons stopping off at the store quickly for last-minute supplies. Upon returning to the farmhouse, Bonnie was freed from the barn, bits of hay in her fur and a doggy grin on her muzzle as she trotted out. Dinner consisted of grilled hamburgers and hot dogs, a plethora of condiments spread out for all to enjoy. The heat of the day started to wear off, bit by bit, by the time Clint and Laura produced an ice cream cake from the freezer. They, along with Holly, insisted that it was time to celebrate Steve's birthday, and as soon as the candles were wedged into it—after a few minutes of thawing—they did so. The cake itself was simple, red and blue piping around a white top layer, letters in ice blue atop wishing him a happy birthday. A round of the obligatory song followed as the candles were lit, Barton doing mocking faces at the commander behind his wife's back mid-song. With them blown out in due time, the vanilla and chocolate flavored confection was cut into (Steve chose to cut it, since he could power through the frozen dairy treat without sacrificing the knife, as the others would have). His presents, he would learn, were back at home, waiting in the storage area downstairs for when they got back to New York. Clint still produced a couple of wrapped parcels, as well as one that Holly sneaked into her bag when he wasn't looking. From the Bartons came a documentary about the life of Napoleon Bonaparte, as well as a Nebraska Cornhuskers shirt. Holly had gifted him with a new painting smock, with Grant's hand-prints on the center of the bib. Lila ran upstairs after he'd given his thanks, producing one of her pictures painted a few days prior. It was a landscape of the farm, crudely done, but leaps ahead of her efforts two years ago. To himself, he marveled at the little girl's talent, and hoped that it would be nurtured even when she went to a new school in the fall.

Eventually, both families made their way outside, sitting on the porch and eating the cake as the day started to wind down. Laura, Lila, and Nate sat on the steps, guarding Cooper and Clint's slices as the two retrieved their other purchases—fireworks—from the basement and brought them outside. Steve and Holly took the two Adirondack chairs, Grant passing from lap to lap as he saw fit.

"You know, just because we came out here doesn't mean the team isn't gonna want to celebrate when we get back," Holly told her husband, speaking around the bite of cake in her mouth. Steve snorted audibly at that, and canted his head.

"Yeah. This prevents it from being all day, stunt-like thing, though," he retorted, his own bite of cake taken and swallowed even as he winced against the cold. Shifting his gaze over to where Clint and Cooper were standing, to the bare patch of field beyond the fence and their voices carrying as they discussed what fireworks they would let off first, he muttered, "Somewhat."

"I know," she replied, patting his thigh. And she did know, truly. A thought dawned on her then, and her gentle grin became an outright smirk. "Gotta hang onto this. Since your 100th is definitely going to be a gigantic blow-out."

"Lord, don't remind me," he grumbled. When he glanced away, his stony demeanor gave way to one of content. Grant toddled around them, his little feet planting as well as it could on the planks of the porch. His bucket hat had been discarded, and his blue shirt had a streak of ketchup on it, but he chirped in joy as he went. Bonnie, exhausted from her day exploring the barn and rooting around in the wide, free yard, was flopped on her side just beside the door. His gaze wandered back onto his wife, her hair pulled off her neck into a messy bun and a splotch of mustard at the corner of her mouth that had survived through the dessert. Inwardly, he chuckled as fondness and adoration lit his irises. "Give me this over that any time."

The warmth in her expression grew at that, and (after he pointed out the condiment on her face and she cleaned the mustard away) she kissed him soundly, interrupted only by the tug of their boy's hands on the legs of his pants to be brought up. Yes, he definitely preferred spending his birthday that way, and would enjoy the rest of it as the sun dipped to the horizon.

 **xXxXxXx**

"Dude, you got invited to a Stark party?!"

Peter Parker grinned at the jump of enthusiasm in his friend's face and voice. Ned, who he'd only been able to see sporadically in between his duties as Spider-Man and also as Tony Stark's lab assistant, was working one of the registers at the grocery store a few blocks away from his house. With Aunt May participating in the neighborhood block party/barbeque, he'd been tasked to go pick up extra ingredients for it. Seizing the opportunity to see his friend and catch up while he worked, he had expected his announcement of his plans for the night to go over...well, like they had. Ned was an excitable, prone to almost let things of that nature make him vibrate with joy. Even if the joy was a vicarious one.

It had to be, given how the bigger kid was strapped down in his smock and collared shirt, stuck to the till until well into the evening that Fourth of July.

"Sort of," Peter stated, his smile a little dimmer than Ned's. Unlike his friend, the novelty of the situation had worn off a tad. While it was still exciting to be working with Tony (as well as the rest of the Avengers in training bouts), he'd already been to a few of the official functions for Stark Industries. And, to be honest, some of them were horribly boring. Generally, he was the only teenager present, and when people learned he was only a lab assistant, he was written off and ignored. But that evening's had sounded a bit better to his ears when he was invited by his employer a few weeks prior. At the very least, he would have something to do for it. "Mr. Stark invited a few of the interns from the program this summer, and I'm gonna be wrangling them. So to speak."

Ned's dark eyes lit up as he swiped two bottles of barbeque sauce over the scanner.

"Even the college ones?" he wondered, his smile growing as Peter nodded. "Sweet."

"Yeah, maybe," Parker muttered. Off his friend's inquisitive stare, he reported, "A couple of them are a little full of themselves, but eh, I'll make it work."

Digesting that, the bigger boy combed back the flop of black hair that had fallen over his brow.

"Can you have a plus one? Can I be your plus one?" he practically begged, digging in his pockets when Peter scrubbed a hand over his forehead. "Please, dude, I will give you..."

Quickly, he counted the change that came to hand, frowning for a moment before holding it out to his friend.

"Uh, seventy-eight cents. To start with."

Peter chuckled, shaking his head.

"Sorry, too last minute." When Ned nodded in dejection, tucking the coins away and ringing up the total for the groceries, he offered, "I'll take pictures."

That got the other teen to smile again, holding out his hand for Parker to hand him the money to pay.

"Awesome," he breathed, change returned and a finger pointing at Peter. "Meet up at Caffrey's tomorrow morning. Gotta discuss."

"Sure thing," he promised his friend, making a mental note to get up earlier than planned to catch a train back to see him. Final good-byes were exchanged as the remainder of the groceries were bagged up, and as he took them out to his aunt's car, he felt slightly better about the proceedings. Ned's optimism had a way of bringing him up at times, even if the dude was a little overenthusiastic and socially awkward on occasion. Returning home (and sharpening his vocabulary inwardly as he navigated between the neighbors to pull up in the driveway, he passed off the supplies to his aunt, only staying long enough to get a burger and chips in him before he had to depart for Manhattan and the Tower. The train ride passed without incident, his entry into the skyscraper down the block from the station going the same way.

Arriving on the top floors, which had once been the major hang-out area for the Avengers before the move upstate, he could see the flurry of activity spilling around him. Caterers and bartenders milled around decorators, tall tables with pristine tablecloths stretched over them. In the midst of them all stood Tony, sipping nonchalantly from a Starbucks to-go cup and looking placid in the chaos. After all, it wasn't exactly his first rodeo; he just wanted to be on hand in case the hired helpers wanted his opinion on something. Or to tell the sound guys that yes, JJ was up and running, and no, they were not allowed to play any song-list that featured nineties pop music. Beside him stood Happy Hogan, head of security for Miss Potts, with a clipboard in hand. Peter had met the older fellow before, and he knew he would be the one he answered to that night. After checking in with both men, he was given leave to go downstairs and get dressed.

Down in the guest quarters, where he would be staying for the night, was a hanging case. Opening it, he felt his eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. The suit within was dark blue, contrasting with the white shirt, and all were tailored to his size. Knowing that Tony had likely nicked the measurements from the last time he was being fitted up for his work suit, he was taken aback by the generosity of the older man. It fit him like a glove, and the blood red tie knotted around his neck set it off nicely. He'd definitely have to find some way to thank Tony properly for it. Maybe more hours in the lab, or actually volunteering to be the guinea pig for the next set of modifications made to his own suit would do. Either way, he was prepared shortly after that, his hair slicked back and his good shoes on as he made his way back upstairs. It had seemed that a miracle had taken place in his absence; the upper decks had erupted in red, white, and blue splendor, bunting along the walkways and fairy lights strung up to provide another, softer glow. It took the harsh, metal edges of the space away, the warmer lighting soft and inviting.

The first guests were beginning to arrive, Tony standing near the elevator with Pepper on his arm. Miss Potts had smiled warmly at him, and he'd blushed through his own greetings—she looked very pretty in her red dress, he couldn't help but be affected. Stark's eyes crinkled at the corners as he caught him out, but he gestured for him to go and take his seat at the nearby table. Hogan was there, labeled name tags and the list of attending interns on it. His job was to hand them out to each one as they arrived, along with imparting a short list of guidelines for the students to follow. It was all very simple, and Peter knew he could do it with ease. Confident in his ability, Happy stepped back, into the shadows, eyes roaming the guests and staying on his toes.

As the flow of people increased, Peter found himself entranced by the crowds. That part of Stark parties hadn't gotten old; he'd always enjoyed people-watching, always got a kick out of spotting little idiosyncrasies and mannerisms unique to each individual. Slowly but surely, the invited interns found their way over to him, taking their tags and signing off on the check-in board in various states of excitement and pleasure. Parker, glad to see a few familiar faces from the program, had no qualms with directing them to the remainder of the room (reminding them that the upstairs laboratory and walkways were forbidden to them for the evening) and promising to catch up with them later.

"Hey, look, it's the professional gofer," a deep, snide voice cut through the air after the last group of interns had left, heavy footsteps drawing up to the table.

Peter closed his eyes briefly, trying to disguise their rolling. Generally, he had no problems with most of the interns in the summer program. It had taken a lot of hard work and genuine desire to succeed for them to even be considered for the program, and most of them were good-natured. Most, but not all.

"Hi Brady, Mark," he greeted the two young men drawing up to the table. He'd encountered them before. Mark, the blond one with brown eyes and freckles, was not so bad; he could be gregarious when he wished, but there were times when he kept to himself, mostly. Brady, on the other hand, was boisterous and a braggart, boasting about his GPA and multiple internship opportunities, and how he was on his way to becoming the next Tony Stark. His size was imposing, as he capped out at six feet even and had a decent amount of muscle straining the seams of his suit (no doubt a size smaller just to emphasize the work he'd put into himself). Thankfully, Peter saw very little of him; between working in the labs, taking care of Queens, and even planning his trip up to the Avengers base for assessment in a few weeks, he saw no reason to go out of his way for him.

Not for that bully.

"Welcome to the party," he said, disguising his distaste with a brittle smile. Palming the name tags, he went on, "Mr. Stark has a few—"

"Yeah, yeah," Brady talked over him, patting down his slicked-back locks and brushing the younger man off. "Just give us our name tags and buzz off, kiddo."

Peter's jaw quirked, and he took in a fast breath.

"Sure," he replied mildly, name tags coming to hand and the clipboard passed over for sign-in. With Brady thoroughly occupied with ignoring him, and Mark standing by passively, Peter had the chance to concoct a swift sort of revenge for the rudeness shown to him. Discreetly, he lowered his hands into his lap, or so it appeared. In reality, he was sheltered from sight, allowing him to secrete a little webbing around the edges of Brady's shoes. Dialing back on the intensity of it, he shot out enough to merely trip him up, as opposed to locking him into place (he wouldn't give himself away in that respect, no matter how much the older boy irked him). When the signing finished and he snapped on his tag, the boy in question went to stride away, his spine straightening with swagger. The effect of it, however, was rather ruined when he went to lift his feet. At once, the sticky-slick sound of webbing being pulled from the floor cut through the air, a sharp contrast to the soft jazz playing overhead. Stumbling, Brady went down like a sack of potatoes, and Peter was hard-pressed to keep a smile off his face. Schooling his expression into something resembling concern, he rose up from his seat, asking if the older boy needed assistance. He was brutally shut down, Brady's irritation pushing him away and washing over Mark as the blond fellow helped him onto his feet. The last of the webbing stuck to him as well, but he merely muttered about how some good cleaners would need to come in later.

Parker, thoroughly satisfied, sat back down, watching them trip and stutter over the stickiness of the floor with a glint in his eyes. From behind him, a throat cleared, and the young man glanced over his shoulder. Happy Hogan had reappeared then, his arms crossed over his chest as his gaze darted between the stumbling boys and back to him, light disapproval on his face highlighting the scars still remaining on his face. Hogan, having been appraised of Parker's situation and his abilities (which Peter did himself, as an act of confidence and trust since Stark had taken him under his wing), often acted as a surrogate look-out for him in between keeping an eye on Pepper and Tony. The boy felt his face flush, knowing he was definitely caught that time.

"Peter," the older man murmured, giving him a look of chagrin. Privately, the teenager reckoned he could have given his Aunt May a run for her money in that department. Shrugging a shoulder, he cast his gaze down to the floor.

"Sorry," he apologized under his breath, hoping it would be enough for the bodyguard to accept. When he looked back up, Hogan merely exhaled sharply, his chin dipped before he clapped a hand on his shoulder and melted back into the crowd. Looking over his list once more, Peter checked off the final two arrivals, his first task of the night completed.

Over the next couple of hours, the teenager milled around the gathered guests, observing them all and even listening to random bits of gossip that floated in the air along with the music. Granted, he did not know ninety percent of the people being talked about, but he supposed that was because he was, generally, not of the same set. These were men and women, adults older than even Tony and trading stories that likely went back and touched on previous generations. Carefully, he threaded his way through the crowds, parking at the bar for awhile and sipping at a Coca-Cola (with not only Happy, but Miss Potts and JJ watching out for him, he knew better than to even think about trying the wine that was circulating). A few times, Tony sought him out, reintroducing him to some colleagues from other tech conglomerates and such. One of them was working on a private project for the army, working to manufacture lighter wings that the Falcon had been commissioned in the past. There were even a few professors from NYU and Columbia attending the festivities, not-so-subtle nudges that Parker was able to identify from Stark as he bade him to talk a little about a few of the things he'd helped with over the past year. Surreptitiously, he was also taking photographs of the event, having perfected the art of holding his phone so that it did not appear that he hitting the shutter button at all. With the upgrades he'd worked on in the labs, the quality of his camera was as good as his Nikon.

As night eventually descended, he was able to slink over to the bank of couches commandeered by the interns in the program. Several of them had already left for the night, citing work or papers that needed attending to on the following day. However, a decent number of them were still there, indulging in the drinks and soaking in the atmosphere of the party, some of them certain they would not have the chance to do so in the future. A few of the girls there—Leslie, Miranda, and Dana—were more than willing to talk to him. Inquiries about how his school year had gone, and how he'd managed to fit in working with Mr. Stark despite the commute from Queens were bandied about, which he answered with alacrity. A few of the older guys made their way over, too, including Mark and Brady. The latter, whom he had seen indulging in the drinks quite a bit more enthusiastically than his colleagues, listened in sullen silence as Peter spoke, until he could not take it anymore.

"Hey, Parker. Got a question for ya," Brady piped up suddenly, swirling the remains of his rum and Coke with a stir stick. The slight slur in his voice was warning enough, and so Peter merely squared his shoulders a bit, half-turning towards Brady with a semblance of calm.

Well, calm laced liberally with frustration, but still, his surface expression did not indicate the depth of it.

"Yes?" he asked, keeping his hands folded in his lap. The older fellow put down his glass on the end table, his eyes narrowing in on him.

"Where do you get off?" he growled then, all affability drained out of his voice and posture. One of the girls, Leslie, tried to interject, all of them able to see how far gone he was, but he shut her down immediately with the harshest glare Peter had ever seen (on a civilian, at least). Jabbing a finger towards Parker, he continued, "No, seriously. I've seen some of your projects; how in the hell did you con your way into getting to be lab assistant to Tony Stark? Especially with those piddly-ass wing-dings you construct? I don't get it."

Finger laced tightly together at the insinuations being lobbed at him, Peter shot him a glare of his own. He had suspected that jealousy had motivated Brady Klein to treat him poorly over the last month and a half, but he had hoped that the older student would've kept relations in public semi-professional. Even if the job had started as a way to ground him after his uncle's death, he had bent over backwards and sideways to keep the job. He'd proven himself, time and again, to Tony Stark, kept up with the mad ramblings and the fast calculations, assisting in projects that he would not have been able to touch otherwise and even contributing to them. He'd earned his place, and he did not appreciate some snot-nosed rich kid throwing shade over his work just because he wasn't in the position.

After he willed his teeth to stop grinding, Peter stared daggers up at the older fellow, his eyebrows inclining.

"Well, maybe because unlike _your_ projects, Brady, mine actually work," he shot back, low crows from the other interns filtering into the air. It was true, though; the projects Brady had been assigned to over the past several weeks had either failed or needed further work, due to his personal incompetence. Money and influence may have gotten him the position, but his poor efforts were clear for all to see. Spying the rise of red in the older fellow's face, Parker stood then, brushing his sweating palms down the sides of his trousers as he shook his head. "I don't have to prove myself to you. Get over it, you sore loser."

Those last words were lobbed over his shoulder, parting shots to stem any further confrontation and allow him the chance to walk away. Brady, however, had clenched his fists, his fury skyrocketing at the cavalier attitude the little punk was showing him.

"You scrawny, little—" he cried, shaking off Mark's restraining hand and striding forward, a fist flying towards the back of Parker's head.

The sense in Peter's mind tingled, warning him of the incoming punch, and so he dropped to his knees, deftly avoiding the blow. Pivoting to the side as he got up, he grabbed the extended wrist and twisted it behind Brady's back, a well-aimed kick behind the older boy's knees sending him straight to the floor. His grip, harder than iron and more restrictive than steel, kept Brady in check as he calmly leaned forward.

"I said, get over it," he hissed at the older boy, twitching his wrist and making him whimper a bit. After a few moments, he let go, shoving Brady down and away from him. The older fellow was fully subdued, nursing his wrist with a deadly glare. Standing up, Peter sniffed hard, fingers combing through his hair as he tried to still their minute shaking. Glancing around, he could see that all those within ear- and eye-shot had frozen, the display between the high schooler and the college intern having garnered whispers and wide-eyed glances. The sea of well-dressed party-goers separated as Mr. Stark threaded his way through them, the creases of his face pronounced as his lips folded into a frown.

Brady's lips curved into an almost evil grin, assuming that Peter would finally get thrown out once and for all. However, that was not meant to be.

"Happy, escort Mr. Klein off the premises," Tony said, gesturing for the head of security to move. Complying, Hogan's face was passive as he scooped the boy off the floor. Next to him, Brady hardly looked substantial, and so he voiced no protest despite the red rage coloring his cheeks. Nodding once, Tony told him, "Consider yourself removed for the remainder of the internship program."

His embarrassment complete, the young student was marched away from the party, the soft swish of the elevator doors down the hall signaling the other party-goers to resume their conversations. It all seemed a little bright, a little forced, but soon enough the voices smoothed over the awkwardness that had been present earlier.

Tony let his gaze linger over the remaining interns, the girls on the couch stock-still and Mark frozen in his place.

"His professor is going to get one hell of a call in the morning from me," the tech genius declared, pivoting swiftly on his heel and striding away. Giving one last look to the others, Peter followed him, his own flush of embarrassment rising in him.

"You don't have to do that, Mr. Stark," he announced to his employer. Tony spiked an eyebrow at him; the use of the title was indicative of Parker's residual distress and chagrin, but he was not having it.

"Yeah, I do," he countered the younger man. As Peter opened his mouth to speak, he cut him off. "He barely made the screening process as it was; he doesn't deserve to earn his credits if he can barely act like a frickin' human being. We don't need people like him getting into the scientific realm and screwing it up."

His reasoning was sound, but Peter did not have to like the outcome of it. Mulishly, he set his jaw, a hard breath flying out of his nose.

"I don't need a protector, or a babysitter."

The billionaire stopped short, forcing the teenager to halt. Piercing him with his dark gaze for several long moments, he murmured, "No, you don't. But here's the thing about this little group that you're shadowing still: we watch out for our own. Got it?"

Parker's embarrassment had finally dissipated enough to see the truth in the words. Tony wasn't there to act like his guardian, but he did care about him. He might not yet carry the title of Avenger, but he had been marked for their aid and companionship since he first attempted to get into the placement trials. It would remain as such, unless he chose to walk away from it all. Deep down, the comfort that could be found in his potential compatriots, in Tony's aid, assuaged something in him, and he found his jaw relaxing, his posture drooping slightly.

"Yeah," he said, inclining his head with a small, rueful grin. Stark returned the expression, clapping him hard on the shoulder.

"Good. Now, come on," he said, flapping his hand at the boy as he began to stride to the elevator bank. Punching the button for the conveyance that descended to the empty quinjet hangar, he supplied, "I need some help blowing crap up. Be a good way to relieve any leftover angry tension."

"I'm not tense," Peter remarked, bristling at the implication. The elevator doors opened, and Stark spiked an eyebrow. After a second or two, Parker pulled himself to his full height and entered the box. "Let me at the Roman candles."

Tony smirked, entering after him and jabbing the button again. "There ya go."

And as he helped configure the Independence Day display with his mentor, staring up at the starbursts and spirals in all colors, he could at least admit that _that_ Stark party was definitely one to remark and remember.

Boy, did he have some good pictures, and stories, to tell Ned the next day.

* * *

 **A/N:** Long chapter, y'all! Hope you enjoyed it!

I have wanted to get the Barton and Rogers families together for so long, and it finally happened. Gotta say, I'm kind of pleased with the result. As well as that, we touch on Peter once more. Getting Ned in there was fun, brief as it was, and I just...I just enjoyed writing this one.

We're one chapter away from the end, everyone. So close, so close...I will be doing thank-yous and such then, but I'm just preparing you all for the future. (Remember, there is a fifth installment coming as well, so hang tight!)

One last thing: July 30th will officially mark my tenth year of being an FF writer. I can hardly believe it...ten years, I've been writing and working on this site...and I'm not finished yet. ;-) Celebrate! Let off the fireworks, and eat some cake in commemoration!

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, _Miss Congeniality_ , _The Karate Kid_ , all t-shirts, Dairy Queen, Nikon, the Nebraska Cornhuskers, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	24. Chapter 24

Steve sat down at the center console, a sharp breath blown out his mouth.

The mission was a success, overall. A splinter group of the organization Coulson's team had been clashing with (an almost rogue form of HYDRA) had found its way down to the nation's capital. The group had been digging through the remains of the Triskelion, determined to get to the buried lower levels and retrieve anything that had been left behind. Not there was anything of value for them to find; Fury had verified that all that was left of the lower decks were building implements and electrical parts. Certainly, those could be salvaged to build some new machinery, but anything that brushed intelligence had already either been dumped via Romanoff's handiwork, or erased completely. The alarms had sounded, and the Avengers were on the way, all of them advancing with SHIELD's blessing.

The team had a terrific handle on the situation. However, his presence had been requested, not only by Fury but Barnes as well. Both of them understood the need to have Steve in the area, and as soon as they called him and told him the destination, he understood, too. Though he was no longer Captain America, it would not do for him to not at least supervise in some capacity over the work in Washington, D.C.

He'd gone with, his suit donned and his shield on his harness just in case things took a terrible turn. With Sam's Redwing unit deployed, he was able to watch the progress of the others (night vision was a glorious thing, even if everyone showed up on a sickly green frequency). He radioed in every now and again for checks, pointedly pocketing certain medical items in his belt pack in preparation. However, a small pack of ten had torn off from the main group, stumbling in the dark until ran broadside into the quinjet. Frowning, Rogers felt there was only one thing left to do. Exiting the craft, he squared his shoulders as the hatch opened, the faces of those who had attempted to escape creasing in frustration and anger when they spotted him. Launching into action, he dispatched them fluidly, his touch not lost despite the lack of regular action. He'd kept in form for a reason, and he was glad to have done so as he vaulted over a fallen enemy, slamming the sole of his boot into the chest of another. His shield reflected the bullets of those smart enough to withdraw their weapons. Upon being flanked, he pressed the secret latch on the inside, the shield separating onto both arms. The deflections were devastating, and within minutes, the lost men were all on the ground, either knocked out or too injured to escape. As he zip tied those he'd fought, he'd heard the command from Bucky to start clean-up. The leader of the outfit had surrendered, and it was time to process everything.

Unfortunately, they'd also drawn the attention of the media with their arrival and fight, helicopters and news vans flooding the bridge right after the police and other law enforcement vehicles arrived. Rogers, having hauled over his opponents with the help of the Vision, had spotted the first wave of reporters pushing out of their vans, cameras and microphones at the ready. The law enforcement officers had put down restrictive sawhorses immediately, but they leaned over the barriers, shouting and calling for the Avengers, for the captain and the commander, to give them a word.

Well, up to a point, which was why Steve had returned to the quinjet well before Bucky had. He tapped a finger against the console as humor lit his irises, his earpiece still tapped in as Barnes finally wrapped up the final interview and was making his way back. Under his breath, he spouted out what could only be curses in Russian, and Steve was hard-pressed to withhold his chuckles as drew off his helmet and waited. Soon enough, hard stomps made their way up the hatch, the coiled energy of the new Captain America being expelled through terse movements and harsh glares. As he slung his rounded shield onto his harness, Bucky's gaze shot over Steve, and the other fellow cleared his throat.

"How'd it go?" he asked, the innocence in his features belied by the tiny, little smirk on his lips. He watched as Bucky drew back the masked cowl of his uniform, a choice hand gesture flashed at him mere seconds later.

"You're an ass," he growled, and Steve couldn't help the bubble of laughter in his chest. From up in the cockpit, he caught a smattering of snickers. Suffice it to say, Bucky had heard those, too, and he glared in that direction as well. "And shut up, Wilson."

Rogers tutted under his breath, a mocking chide for Barnes to fix his attitude met with another obscene gesture. From the left wing, another voice rang out, amusement laced beneath the musical flow of words.

"Hope you were better behaved with the press. They can be sort of sensitive," Natasha said, sidling out of the wing and up to her partner. Her wounds, minor as they were and already bandaged, did not stop her as she approached him. Bucky's gaze turned to her, the annoyance in them barely softening.

"You're not helping," he grumbled. Arching an eyebrow at her, he asked, "Aren't you supposed to be on my side?"

The fiery redhead laid her palm on his arm, sliding it down to lace with his. "Most times."

With that, Natasha led him away, smacking at the button to seal the hatch behind him. Wilson sat at the helm, Lang in the copilot's chair in yet another attempt to teach him some flying basics. Along the right bank of seats, Wanda was curled up beside the Vision, the android curling an arm around her as she dozed off, his electric blue eyes focusing on a point along the far bulkhead. Everyone was onboard, safe and sound. With the remaining hour of flight to fill, the commander tapped at the console, drawing up a digital keyboard and typing at the interface. Since he had the time, he began a preliminary report, swiftly emailing it to Hill, Fury, and Chapman as well. Inspecting his digital inbox, he reviewed a message sent in from the field leader across the pond. Apart from a few hiccups off the coast of Portugal and Madagascar, there was little to report that week. Pietro and Crystal were on a recon mission at the moment (though Joe jokingly called it a mini-break holiday, whatever that was), and Duquesnes and Guerrero had called in Katie Bishop to examine files that had links to her parents' company. Their contacts in the CIA—rather, his contact, but he wasn't about to split hairs; if he and Sharon were happy with their situation, Steve wasn't going to say anything against it—were about to conduct a tour and review of the Raft, and the promise of note-sharing had been passed. Though it was all going to be off-the-books, Rogers looked forward to their assessment; it had been months since any of the Avengers had set foot in the place, the prison giving them all chills when they'd toured it. Perhaps the CIA would cooperate with Hawley, speak about improvements after several other government agencies had a chance to look at the facility.

He was torn out of his musings as Lang's voice rang out from the cockpit, warning them all to prepare for landing. Exiting out of his email and shutting down the console, Rogers fetched up his shield and helmet, standing as soon as the landing gear touched the rooftop platform. The adrenaline of the night's events had drained away, and he felt exhausted. So much had been done that night, and there was so much to do during the day as well. Blinking, he stifled a yawn, shuffling alongside his teammates and telling them that their own reports needed to be in by Monday. Muttered agreements and yawns were volleyed back at him, and he took that as assent.

"You gonna make it home, dude?" Sam asked him as they headed across the platform to the elevator bank. There were a few that had rooftop access, but as a whole, the team were converging upon one all the way to the left, as it had access to the private apartments at the back. Steve shot him a sidelong glance, huffing out a breath.

"It's only fifteen minutes. I'll be fine," he said, getting into the conveyance and punching the button for the garage levels, which it also had access to. As they all rode down, he rested his hands on his belt, letting the small smatterings of conversation flutter around him. His team, his friends, were all right; there were minimal injuries, minimal damage, and there were apprehended leaders of the splinter sect for Coulson to interrogate. Not a bad mission at all, he mused, pleased with the end results. The elevator stopped on the floor for the Avengers' quarters, good-nights bid as all but one got off. Nodding to his team, Rogers murmured, "See you all tomorrow."

Affirmation of that fact given by his friends, the elevator doors closed again, leaving him on his own as he made it to the underground levels and to his truck. Within minutes, he was tearing out of the base, turning off the access road and on his way home. The drive itself yielded no issue, apart from the fact that his eyelids drooped on and off. Rolling down the window and letting the cool, night air flood the cab of the truck helped quite a bit, enough so that he pulled up his driveway and disarmed the security protocols for the property. The truck lumbered into the garage, the engine ticking in a cool-down as he shut it off. For a few minutes, he leaned his head back against the rest, nearly falling asleep there. Shaking his head violently, he pushed the door open, keys grabbed along with his helmet and shield. Going to the back door, he typed in the security codes as quickly as he could, a heavy breath pouring out his nose as he was eventually let into his house. Save for the click of the air conditioning, the house was silent, though JJ quietly reported that Holly and Grant were safe upstairs, as well as Bonnie. Locking up the back door, Steve moved as silently as possible to the living room, his shield and helmet placed on the floor as he slumped onto the couch. Inwardly, he was shouting at himself to take his boots off and head upstairs to bed, but he knew he couldn't make it that far.

Instead, he stretched out on the sofa, promising himself that he would rest for an hour, and then complete the trip. Upon a half-garbled command, JJ dimmed the lights slowly, lulling him into sleep.

The next thing he was aware of was something cold and wet nuzzling at his fingertips. His hand twitched away from the cold intrusion, but it had returned, followed by the sound of panting. Pulling his palm onto the cushion beside him, he turned onto his back, thinking that was the end of it.

A sharp, high-pitched yip shook him totally out of slumber, and he groaned. Miss Bonnie refused to be ignored, he thought dully as his other palm swiped over his face. Without opening his eyes, he let his arm flop over the edge of the cushion, patting down the little corgi's furry body for a few seconds. Thus satisfied, she scampered away, nails clicking and more yips resounding.

What got him to open his eyes was the sound of soft chuckles, and a happy, babyish croon cutting through the air. Slowly, his lids slid back, and he was met with the sight of Holly holding their son, looking at him from behind the couch. Her eyebrows raised as he smiled lazily at her, her tongue clicking as the little guy waved at him.

"And here I thought the days where you wore the suit home from work were over," she said, the tremor of a tease in her tone. Sitting up, Steve registered her words as she handed Grant to him over the back of the sofa, snorting even as he gave the little guy a hug and kiss good-morning.

"Can't exactly do sweeps in a button-up and khakis, sweetheart," he told her, placing the baby on the floor and turning him toward the basket of toys by the arm chair. As the little guy toddled over and dumped out a few of the plastic animals within, the commander tilted his head back against the cushion and let out a slow breath. "Had a little action down in D.C. to take care of."

Holly dipped her chin as she came around and sat down beside him. After all, he'd gotten the call just as they were getting ready for close up the house for the night. Obviously, she hadn't known the details, but she had worried all the same as he hastily sped out the door. The mission, no doubt, was one the team could handle themselves, but he had gone mostly due to the location of the action, she'd surmised then.

"Couldn't have been a helicarrier crashing, we would've heard the news by now if that was the case," she speculated aloud, half-joking as she twitched at the hem of her sleep shorts.

Steve shook his head, confirming her suspicions. "Nah. Just some rogue agents who couldn't stay ahead of our lead. Buck got roped into talking for the news this time, asking about his first year as captain."

Holly snickered at that, taking the plastic cow Grant was insistently pressing against her leg and patting him on the back in thanks. "What, and nobody wanted to hear from the commander?"

Steve shrugged, eyes tracking the baby as he waddled back to the toy basket. "Only long enough to get my opinion on his tenure, and then they tried to go for the inappropriate angle, so I shut them down. They were less than thrilled with that, so they moved on and I walked."

"Oh, I imagine they were," she returned, fixing him with a curious look. "They really kinda gave you the brush-off?"

"Trade-off for not being totally involved in the action anymore; they've learned," he retorted, raking his fingers back through his hair. (It was starting to grow out again, something he considered letting go on for awhile.) Attempting to tame it, he shot his wife a weary grin. "Some parts of my life just aren't interesting to them. Well, not the parts that involve dirty diapers and spit-up on my shirts."

"But those moments are so magical," she breathed, the sardonic arch of her eyebrows making him chuckle.

"Maybe, but if it doesn't involve risk to life and limb, they leave me alone." He coughed, considering something else as his hands lowered to his lap. "Or if they want to know some really private details about...us."

The tips of his ears were burning pink, which gave Holly an idea of exactly what details they were looking for. Nodding sagely, she sighed.

"Sex sells, dear." Her dark gaze wandered over him, her own fingers coming up to fix the strands of his hair. As she finished and rested her hand on the chest of his uniform, she muttered sarcastically, "Such a disappointment to the public: becoming a father, maintaining your safety so you can keep up with your family. How dare you be so selfish?"

He mockingly tsked at himself. "I know. I should be doing far more interesting things, like throwing myself headlong into danger instead of, I dunno, living my life the way I wish. Shame on me."

"Shame," she echoed, her giggle smothered when she leaned forward and pressed a peck to his lips. His arms curled around her, holding her still even as she leaned back. Her eyes lowered again, her thumb slowly swiping along the edges of the star in the center of his chest. "Still surprised about the suit, though."

"Doll, I got in at three a.m.," he pointed out, hands resting the small of her back and gently kneading the fabric of her sleep shirt. "I wasn't very concerned about what I wore home, so long as I was wearing clothes."

"Heard that before," she mumbled, her other hand coming up to join the first. They lingered along the bands of woven alloy stretching to his shoulders. The bright contrast of the silver upon the black Kevlar and microfiber weave, all stretching over the plates, struck her. It made her a little less annoyed that he'd brought his work gear home...again. "Hmm, at least it looks nice."

"Just what I was going for when I helped designed it," he stated blandly, smirking a bit. The curve of his mouth faded as he looked at her, tilting his head to the left. "Don't miss the red, white, and blue much, do you?"

For a long moment, she did not answer, the clicks of Bonnie's nails as she clattered into the kitchen for her breakfast and Grant's happy little chortles as he played filling the silence. Eventually, she had an answer for him.

"Sometimes I do, but I'm happier with the reasons behind the color change," she confessed, dark eyes meeting his bright ones, sincerity lacing them. Glancing down, her lips morphed into a smirk. "Besides, black is very slimming, y'know."

Steve chuckled, spiking an eyebrow. "Callin' me fat, dear?"

"No," she stated playfully, quirking her lips and giving his shoulder a sharp tap. The plating in the body armor absorbed it, same with the heat as she raised her legs and settled them in his lap. "It just...molds well."

His eyes went half-lidded, though not from exhaustion. Scooping her closer until she properly seated on his lap, he slid a hand into her sleep-tousled hair, kissing her soundly. It was harmless, getting in a little bit of morning necking as the baby and dog were occupied, before they had to prepare for the rest of the day. So he sipped eagerly at her lips, her hunger matching his. As his lips brushed along her jaw down, to her neck, he heard her gasp, but thought nothing of it. Well, he did not think anything of it beyond what was on the surface. As she tilted her head to the side, allowing him a little more access, he felt her back stiffen under his palm, and a question bloomed in the haze of his mind. Still, she spoke before he did.

"Steve, how much does your shield weigh?" Holly asked then, the tenor of her question making something in her throat catch. However, he flattered himself in thinking it was due to the press of his lips trailing along her skin.

"Uh, it clocked in around nine pounds," he said, briefly recalling the number as he ghosted a kiss on the tender spot beneath her ear. "Why?"

Despite her tremulous gasp, her hands pushed against him insistently, forcing him to stop and back away. When he did so, spiking an eyebrow at her movement, he noticed that she wasn't looking at him. Instead, she was looking across the room, her eyes wide in wonderment.

"Because Grant's pulling it all by himself."

"What?" he crowed, immediately turning his head to look, as well. Astonishment rolled through him as he watched Grant, pacifier in his mouth and a stuffed giraffe under one arm, towed his father's shield behind him across the floor. Even as it scraped hard against the wooden slats, the little guy showed no strain as he toddled over to the tiny bean bag chair that was his by the record player. Inhaling sharply, Steve gasped, "Holy shit."

Holly nodded, her dark gaze flicking to him and the corner of her mouth starting to curve. Catching the mischievous glimmer in her irises, he shot her a warning look.

"Don't even say it." Now was hardly the time to tease him about slips in language.

"Wasn't gonna," she replied, her voice a little faint as she promised. Jerking her chin at her baby, still holding onto the shield and bopping his stuffed giraffe toy along it, she nearly whispered, "My mind's pretty preoccupied right now."

"Doll..." Steve's voice faltered as he watched Grant on his little chair, the edges of the shield in his lap and the pure joy lighting his face as he patted the painted vibranium and giggled. Coughing, he forced himself to continue, "Our son has my shield."

She dipped her head in a slow nod, and then she glanced back at him. "Think this is a sign?"

"Yeah. It's a sign that I really need to not leave it on the floor anymore," he groaned, palms cupping his wife's waist. Gently, he lifted her off his lap, helping her shuffle back onto the couch cushion beside him. With his ardor cooled, it was best to take care of the situation at hand and remove the shield from his son's grasp. Getting up and crossing over to the little boy, he knelt down, gauntleted hands closing around the edge of the defensive item. "Okay, bud, give it here."

Tugging carefully, Steve felt another wave of surprise flutter through him as Grant's grip tightened. It wasn't enough for it to be a true contest of wills, but it was enough for the older man to fully understand the development of strength in the little man.

"Hey, now," he chided with a teasing tone, trying to keep the baby from getting upset.

Grant's pacifier fell away, his little face screwing up in dissatisfaction as he held on. "Nuh!"

Sighing, Steve reached out, one palm still gripping the shield's edge and the other plucking at the baby's wrists.

"This isn't a toy. You could get hurt," he admonished the young one, getting his tiny fingers off the vibranium long enough for him to pull it out of his reach. "There."

Little hands tried to grab it again, but Steve swept Grant up into his arms, standing and pointedly crossing the room so that the little guy wouldn't be tempted further. Still, he remained rather wiggly in his embrace, the claw-motions of tiny fingers now scrabbling at the shoulders of his uniform.

"You did good, son," he praised his son quietly, despite the wonderment and worry that laced his heart upon sighting him with the shield. At the back of his mind, an image was conjured up: his boy, a grown man, bearing the shield and taking his place in the future. It made his stomach clench and his heart drop, even as a good measure of pride filled him. "Making your old man proud."

Grant's blue eyes narrowed at him, and he pouted as he sniffled.

"Mama," he whined, petulantly thumping his hands against his daddy's suit. Stifling another sigh, Steve glanced up at the ceiling as he nodded.

"Okay, I'll take you to Mama, since you're not mad at her," he promised, circling back to the couch to Holly. She had watched the little display between father and son, the pride in her eyes dissipating as he handed Grant to her.

"He's not mad at you, Steve," she murmured, patting the baby's back and attempting to soothe ruffled feathers. "He just—"

"I know, doll," he replied, a sardonic grin stretching his lips before he pecked her cheek. He knew all about the bit of temper the little guy had (they both did). After all, he was only a year old; anyone who told him 'no' was either ignored or pouted at, regardless of their relation to him. It would be forgotten in minutes, and Steve himself was not going to dwell on it. Striding over to where he'd left the shield, he swung it up and latched it onto the back harness of his uniform, looking imposing for a second or two after grabbing up the helmet as well. The tired, boyish smile he directed at his wife as he gestured to the suit banished that bearing in an instant. "Gotta go get this off, anyway. Can't show up to the party looking like I'm about to beat some bad guys down, huh?"

She snickered softly as Grant nestled against her, plaintive whimpers not impeding the once-over she gave her husband.

"Well, you could, but it would bring a tense layer to this little man's blow-out," she pointed out.

"Don't want that," he concurred, smiling at his family before heading toward the stairs, Bonnie trotting after him and following him into the bedroom.

Due to Grant's birthday being on the past Monday, the two parents had planned a party for their boy on that Saturday. Presents from his aunts and uncles in the Midwest, plus his grandparents, had already been sent along and opened on the actual day, a bit of cake devoured then. Still, they wanted to do something more for him. All of Grant's Avengers aunts and uncles had been invited, as well as some children from the daycare who had taken a shine to him. Despite the mission the night prior, Steve would be a part of the day, sans uniform. Shucking it off and showering, her swapped places with his wife, choosing to help his son get dressed and ready for the day. Grant had recovered from his earlier displeasure, babbling to his daddy as his button-up tee and shorts were pulled on, and his sandy brown hair had been combed into place. He sat relatively still, gumming at a cool washcloth (his teething had been underway for months, a few pearly whites smattering along his gums) while he tended to. His small shoes and tiny bow tie affixed at the collar just as the master bedroom door opened, his mother coming to them both and crooning over how handsome the boy was.

Shortly before noon, the Rogers family piled into Steve's truck, supplies packed into the seats surround the car seat and in the bed. Once Grant and Bonnie were belted in, they started the vehicle up, the house locked down until they returned. Cutting across the countryside, they soon enough found their way into the village they often visited for groceries and such. The sleepy little town had long since stirred for the day, people dotting the crosswalks and cars moving in and out of the grocery store lot. The diner, set just within the limits and the great favorite of the base workers, was already full, but it was not their destination. Instead, they headed through the town to the small park on the other end, lines of trees bordering it to separate it from the nearby homes. Pulling onto the flat, tarred area dedicated to parking, it was easy to see the green expanse of it from the vehicle. One end held a soccer field, while the other held two baseball diamonds. In the middle of the treed area beside it was a well-sized playground, complete with a slide, swings, and a seesaw.

The covered pavilion in the park awaited them, Holly having booked it for the afternoon. However, it was clear that they were not the first to arrive. Wanda, auburn hair pulled back and a smile lighting her green eyes, had towed the Vision along with her, the sweater and khakis he wore a little at odds with the July heat. Sam and Kay were there, the agent having returned herself from a private assessment with the secondary team only a couple of days ago. Once Bonnie was situated, tied up securely and as comfortable as she could be, given the circumstances, the adults went to work, tacking up streamers and getting the food ready. As they worked, they passed Grant between them, the little guy being showered with affection and praise as they went around.

Slowly but surely, other party attendees found their way to the park. The rest of the team trickled in, having rested up from the previous night's excursions. Alongside them came Holly's coworker Todd, her supervisor Melanie just behind him with her husband. And, they were delighted to note, so did a few of the families whose children attended daycare with Grant. The ones that were his age were accompanied by older siblings, though the oldest child was only six years of age. A small playpen had been constructed for the babies beneath one of the trees, shaded from the summer sun while the slightly older ones milled around, bringing out their own toys and such along with the ones provided by Steve and Holly (they'd purchased very cheap foam balls with the hope of keeping everyone happy with minimal injuries. Thus far, it was working). Lunch, which consisted of hot dogs, chicken, and burgers, with a few side dishes set up—it was the one time Holly conceded to a potluck, and it ended up being a moderate success—was indulged in, everyone moving and eating at their own pace while wishing the little man a happy belated birthday.

"Couldn't have just rolled your birthdays into one, huh?" Lang had joked, coming upon the baby of the hour as he was being held by his father and greeted by his Uncle Bucky near the playground. Reaching out and tickling Grant's belly, he couldn't resist ribbing the commander a bit more. "Could've made it easier on all of us."

"Nope," Steve immediately denied, bringing up his boy and grinning widely. "The little guy deserves to have his own day."

The three men nodded at that, Scott giving the baby one more tickle before wandering off to seek out more food. Bucky, on the other hand, doled out a genuine grin as Grant crowed at him. Small hands made grabbing motions at him, wanting to be held by the other man. There was only a moment of hesitation, of question, in Bucky's irises, but he quickly held out his arms to the boy. Eagerly, the little guy flopped toward him, giving his father no choice but to hand him over.

"Well, rug-rat, you enjoying your big day?" Bucky asked him, smirking as the baby grinned and reached up. He almost managed to grab a hunk of Barnes' hair, but a big palm wrapped around his wrist, drew it down as he snickered. "'Course you are. It's all about you."

"Careful. Your furry little girlfriend is gonna get jealous, Buck," Steve warned him, eyes glittering as he nodded to where Bonnie had been set up for the day. The little corgi was on a long lead, one end clipped around a tree trunk and the other to her harness several feet out. A bowl of water and food had been place by the trunk, tucked between roots so they would not be easily knocked over. A couple of the children from the daycare were petting her, rubbing her belly as she rolled onto her back. All were under strict instruction to not let her off the leash, and the parents at hand were certainly watching their offspring like hawks. (Along with the drone that had been gifted—nominally—to Grant for his baptism, which he and Holly had their phones tapped into.) The small dog was veritably in heaven, and certainly paying no mind to the tall, brunet man she always snuggled on when he visited the house.

Bucky rolled his eyes, mumbling, "Shuddup."

The revv of an engine cut through the air, the men glancing over to the parking area. A gleaming, black Audi was shunted into the last available spot, doors popping open and the last of the invited guests smoothly sliding out of their seats. Dark and light eyebrows rose as they noticed the approaching couple, the light redhead linking her arm with the brunet man beside her, a big gift bag held in her free hand. Though they'd attempted casual wear, it was easy to see how high quality they were. Waving, Pepper Potts began to lead the way over to where the baby of the hour was. Tony Stark, his smirk turning somewhat indulgent as he let his fiancee tow him along. The pleasure in her face doubled as they said their hellos, her fingers gently patting the baby's cheek and combing at his hair before she hugged Steve in greeting. Stark and Rogers settled for shaking hands, and simple nods passed between him and Barnes. Directing her over to the pavilion where Holly was, as well as the table for gifts, Pepper left them after a few moments, another round of happy hellos passed as the three men stood amidst the chatter and flow of the day.

Eventually, Tony dipped his chin at the baby still in the new captain's arms. "Mind lettin' someone else have a turn, Barnes?"

Bright eyes widened, and Bucky shifted Grant, holding him out the billionaire. "Sure thing."

"Hey, short stack. Been awhile," Tony grunted as he took up and hefted the little guy. He hadn't seen him since New Year's; six months and some change had certainly rendered the boy bigger, if nothing else. Bigger, and with a few more teeth than before, he noted wryly. Slight confusion seemed to register on Grant's face, but soon enough he smiled at the older man. Chucking him under the chin, he exclaimed at how he'd brought something special for him, and then he smirked when the little guy started to pet his goatee. That earned a smile from the child's father, and the other 'uncle' at hand leaned his shoulder against the nearest tree trunk. Rapid footsteps beat along the ground, the grass stomped down as a flock of children descended upon them. Spying them, Stark's smiled dimmed slightly, but he maintained his pleasant tone. "And, hey, more kiddos."

"Come pway," said one little girl of the group. Her name was Lanie, and she was roughly three years old, and had taken to Grant since his first weeks at the daycare. Blond curls were stirred by the gentle breeze, her brown eyes wide as she stared up at Tony. She was quite a strong-willed child, as Jan often stated, and she had deep courage, marching up to three Avengers and inviting them to join her and the rest of the kids. Boldly, she reached out and tugged at Stark's pant leg, waiting for the answer. Taken aback by her insistence, the tech genius dipped his chin, the corner of his mouth curving after a moment or two.

"Uh, sure. Sure, let's go play," he said, his expression twisting into bemusement even as the small girl grabbed his free hand and led him over. Flashing a fast look over his shoulder at Steve and Bucky, he shifted Grant a bit as the girl pulled him along. "Whatcha got planned, a little rolling on the grass, or what?"

Whatever her answer was, it was lost as the ring of children she'd drawn him into started shouting and jumping around again. Two boys of the group looked back, calling New Cap and Old Cap to play, too. Bucky nudged him with an elbow, smirking wide at his friend being referred to as old, but Steve merely snorted and shook his head. He had to check in with Holly about when to bring out the cake for their boy. Still, that left Barnes at loose ends.

"Go on," he bade him, nodding to where the kids were circling around Stark, and then Lang when he went to join him. Smirking, he continued, "Could always do with more practice."

The amusement in Bucky's face dimmed, and he looked at the kids with uncertainty. "Steve..."

The blond man met his gaze, sympathetic but unwavering in his stance. "Kids aren't going away, Bucky. More will keep showing up. Might as well embrace it."

The way he said it caught Bucky's attention. Furrowing his brow, he glanced over to where Holly was. She and Kay were under the pavilion, the brunette chatting with Pepper as she dished up some food while the blue-haired agent hefted the gift bag with no effort. With the tables in the way and the roaster pans blocking the view, he could not see anything different on the young woman he was starting to call friend. But, as he knew well, that didn't mean that nothing had changed with her.

Barnes tipped his chin at her, lowering his voice as he asked, "Is she...?"

Steve, understanding at once, shook his head.

"No, but again, maybe for the future." Though they had begun trying again for more children since the month prior (both of them in agreement and too impatient to wait until the actual day of Grant's birthday for their promised "discussion"), Holly was not pregnant. Not yet, at least, he told himself; it was early days. Time would tell on that matter. And in any case, that did not mean there weren't other kids that would enter the Avengers' sphere. Peter was still a year away from legal adulthood, and little Cassie Lang was bound to come around for another visit. There were also Barton's children to consider; if Bucky continued to be Nat's fella, he was definitely going to see them from time to time.

Plus, the plans Hill had been formulating with Fury and Coulson, with Hawley's approval, could very well come to fruition soon. With the Inhuman phenomenon underway, it was understood that something had to be done with the children affected by it, as well as the adults. Talks of an academy, for housing and teaching the youngsters—as well as training them—were had back and forth since last May, and once the budget had been agreed upon, they would most likely start building sometime in the next few months. The upstate area could soon be inundated with many children, many who would be enhanced, lost, scared. Those were things Bucky could relate to, and could relate with them, should they come.

"If nothing else, for their future."

Steve tipped his head to where the other children were playing, a ring of them surrounding Tony as they passed balls and toys to one another. Bucky snickered at that, shaking his head.

"You see potential recruits everywhere, don't you?"

"Every kid has potential, period," Steve retorted softly, the truth in his words ringing in the air. "For one thing or another, not just to fight."

A final look passed between them, with Bucky huffing out a sigh and heading over to the little crowd of children, his friend moving off to connect with the other parents and tend to their needs.

With the new arrivals assimilated into the action, the party-goers continued to move and morph, new factions forming and others breaking off. In spite of being up and going consistently since their arrival, Holly had managed to find a moment to sit down. Grant was in the care of his uncles—Stark and Bucky were being remarkably tolerant of each other's presence, and it filled her with relief—Steve was managing to ingratiate himself with the fathers of the families that had arrived, and the mothers were flowing around watching the children and trading bits of gossip. Soon enough, she found a moment to sit, after she and Kay had retrieved the cake from the back of the blue-haired woman's Jeep. Briefly, she felt a twinge of sadness at her family not being able to be there for the party, but she comforted herself with the fact that they'd celebrated with them when they'd detoured into Minnesota a few week back. Sarah and Aaron were also not present, the pair of them in Virginia for Sarah's mother's birthday, but they sent their love and a tube of plastic animal toys for the little guy.

Still, she was grateful for the company she did have, Kay plopping down beside her with a plate of seconds while Pepper Potts sat at the table across from them. They sat facing each other's benches, trading news of their own. With much deliberation had between the two, Kay and Sam had moved into a house, renting a little on the north end of the village. Though Wilson had spent the night at the base, he had moved the last of his things in that morning, and she was pleased with the step they were taking. On top of that, she'd been promoted in the testing department; when she was not busy with search and rescue duties, Kay would have more opportunities to investigate and choose the projects they developed for the agents and team members. The CEO of Stark Industries, chiming in when bid, had been looking into the results of the clean energy project that had been in development before the Battle of New York, and she was pleased to note that the other members of the board had approved continuing it in the hopes of developing it for the market in the next few years. As well as that, she and Tony had finally picked a date for the wedding, and she was beginning to streamline the process for the ceremony with the wedding planner she'd hired. New Year's Eve would not be a simple date to work with, but the elbow grease and favors she'd collected over the years, it seemed doable as the days went by.

"How the second great American novel coming?" Pepper asked Holly, taking a breath and picking at her plate of food. She was curious about the project; it had been just over a year since the younger woman's first book had been introduced on the market. It took a little snooping, but she'd discovered Holly's pseudonym and had picked up the book. It wasn't really her cup of tea, but she could see the hard work and dedication poured into it. If she were up to the task, there was no reason to think the next wouldn't be just as much a labor of love for Holly.

"It's going alright," she confessed, lifting a shoulder. In truth, it had slowed down a bit over the last month, what with going on an impromptu vacation and Steve's birthday earlier on. Still, she was making progress, the outline of the story prevalent in her mind. It would only be a short while, but she kept her fingers crossed and hoped she'd be able to submit the final chapter before her own birthday rolled around. Leaning back against the table, she murmured, "Main character's currently stuck in a sort of bar room brawl, which will eventually lead to her being lead to an underground resistance headed up by the young fellow she'd been torn apart from years ago."

"Ah," Kay intoned, swallowing the bite of chip she'd taken fast. A hand came up, pushing back the lengthening strands of her blue hair off her forehead. Waggling her eyebrows playfully, she joked, "Going for a bodice-ripping romance this time?"

Holly snorted aloud at that, barely hiding her laughter. "Only if it were set in a different period of history. And if you consider special powers, hand-to-hand combat, and government facilities sexy."

Natasha, ladling up another helping of pasta salad, chuckled then.

"Could be. There are a few things I could tell you about those things and their appeal," she stated, arching a well-shaped eyebrow as she sat down beside Pepper. Flicking her ocean-colored gaze away, she muttered, "Probably would be best not to share those in front of the children."

A couple of the older boys tromped by at that moment, one running after the other as he held away a ball that they were playing with. All the gathered women watched as they went, Holly's eyes darting to her own boy (being passed between Uncle Sammy and Auntie Wanda, his belly being tickled and his giggles floating out) before turning her attention back to Nat.

"I might have to hit you up for those in the future. Whatever's declassified, at least," she said, brushing her palms down the sides of her shorts. The redheaded beauty snickered again, raising her chin proudly and taking a good bite of pasta salad.

"No names, no locations, but there are a few details I can share." She tapped her fork on the plate, her mouth curving into a sly grin. "Would make it a bit more accurate than your first book."

A flush of pink invaded the brunette's cheeks, but to her credit, she did not shy away from the other woman's assessment.

"Yeah, well, I didn't think that…" she trailed off, flapping a hand in the air as a wry smile came to her lips. She half-expected the minor critique from the ex-assassin, had thought she would have something to say months ago. Kay had certainly done so; the accuracy of it, according to actual operatives, was questioned, but not terribly so. Evidently, Nat only just found the time to deliver it."I started writing it before I could be called out on that. Oops."

The Black Widow lifted a shoulder, maintaining her grin.

"Still entertaining" she pronounced, nods from Pepper and Szymik confirming her words. Leaning forward slightly, she focused on the brunette. "Did Chelsea actually kill Luke, by the way?"

The reference to the aftermath of the climax of her first story made her chuckle. She'd purposefully left the demise of the empowered girl's handler-turned-enemy ambiguous, and that was how she was going to leave it to them that day, as well.

"Sorry, Natasha, but you'll find out when everyone else does once it goes to print," Holly proclaimed, a finger coming up and pointing at Romanoff as she fixed with a suddenly serious look. "And if you hack my computer, I will totally change the storyline solely to piss you off."

Romanoff rolled her eyes, huffing out a great breath. "Damn. Fine, you win."

More chatter ran among them, but before much longer Steve interrupted their conversation, smiling in apology as he drew his wife away. As per their plan for the day, it was time to start doling out the cake, with presents attended to afterward. But first, they had to get Grant all set for it. With the Vision (drawn away from a discussion with Melanie about certain archive projects he could assist with in the future) taking command of the drone and ensuring the camera was indeed filming, a blanket was spread on the ground and anchored by a couple of large rocks found in the park. As their friends and the children started to gather, Grant was brought to his mother, his father locating the tiny smash cake that was to be all for him for the day. It was blue, with green polka dots ringing it and a small number 1 candle perched in the center. It was quickly lit as Holly sat the baby in her lap, a ringing chorus of the birthday song passing between the others. At its conclusion, cheers went up, and she braced the boy as she shuffled closer to the cake.

"Happy birthday, Grant. Blow," she sing-songed to her boy, smiling briefly up at Steve before bending closer to the cake (he had brought his good camera along, snapping pictures rapidly). Grant's eyes widened as the flame was extinguished, his mother's puff drawing out the spirals of smoke from the candle. The small, wax candle was removed, the tiny cake pulled closer to the little guy, and Holly adjusted his big bib once more before planting a peck in his hair. Staring at it for another moment or two, the one-year-old did just as the name of the confection implied, and smashed his hands atop it. The blue icing stuck to his fingers, clumps of white cake clenched in his fists as he first brought one and then the other up to his mouth. Cheers and claps ringed around them, and he smiled through the smears on his face, doing what Holly called his "cheese face" as cameras and phones lifted in his direction. Steadying him, the young mother nodded to her husband, the unspoken signal for him to start dishing up the rest of the cake for their guests. The plain sheet cakes from the grocery store bakery were consumed, and she furtively watched as the others indulged. Kay teased Sam with a bite of her, with him rolling his eyes before smirking and snapping his teeth at her fork. Natasha was chuckling at the bit of frosting that had gotten on Bucky's nose, carefully cleaning it off before he dug into the confection with gusto. Lang and Wanda were sizing up each other's corner pieces, while the Vision sat down beside his partner and looped his arm around her. Pepper whispered something into Tony's ear as they got their slices, the last of the bunch to do so after the other families and children had gotten a crack at it.

Grant jerked in her arms, pushing away the demolished smash cake with alacrity, and she snickered, reaching behind her to the package of wet wipes she'd sneaked over before the singing had started. Steve made his way back to her, two pieces of cake on paper plates in his hands and fondness in his expression.

"One year old," he said, putting down the plates and sitting beside her swiftly.

"It's been a good year," Holly mused, attempting to wipe up the mess on her son's face. Failing that, she tossed the wet wipe aside, holding him in her lap and chuckling to herself.

"One of the best," Steve concurred, sitting on the blanket beside them. It was true, to him, at least: he could not remember a time when he'd been more at peace, more loved and happy with life than that one. Opening his arms, he scooped Grant up from the blanket, having him stand up in his lap for a minute while he brushed down the back of his clothes.

"Many more to come, too," she declared, her brown eyes flicking over to him before narrowing in question. "Don't you think?"

"I hope so," he nearly whispered, wishing that deeply in his heart. Holding up his son, Steve looked him over. Bits of cake and frosting had found their way up to Grant's sandy brown hair, his bright blue eyes shining with mirth. He looked so much like him, and still, carried so much of Holly in him, too. His boy, a year old and his whole life ahead of him, stared back. He couldn't help the tremulous grin on his lips as he murmured, "Love you, buddy."

"Dada," the little boy crowed, patting his father's cheeks and smiling. Leftover icing now decorated the blond man's face, but he could not have care less at that moment. Grinning widely, Steve bumped the end of Grant's nose with his own as he bounced him up and down a few times. His arm tucked around the boy, he held out his free hand to his wife, relishing the brush of her skin as she took it and laced their fingers together. As she leaned her chin onto his shoulder, he closed his eyes, sure he would carry that moment in his heart for the rest of his life. It would be a comfort in the dark times, should they come, he knew.

At that moment, though, he treasured that time they had, unwilling to mar it. The Rogers family basked in the warmth of the day, of their friends, and held to one another as the bright July afternoon rolled on.

* * *

 **A/N:** And that, my friends, is the end of _In Due Course_. I hope this was a fun, easy journey for you all to go on. It certainly was for me; I like being able to catch my breath a bit before something major rolls along.

As some of you have predicted, we got to see Grant's first birthday party, after a bit of action the night before for Steve. I think that not only is this a momentous occasion for the little guy, but for the father as well, considering that he is indeed living a life here that he would not otherwise be in canon. It's sticky-sweet and fluffy, but hey, that's kinda how this story has rolled.

I will take this moment to thank all of those, past and present, who have favorited, followed, reviewed, and enjoyed this story. You have all helped me, in one way or another; some of you have given me ideas, some of you have helped push me along, and even those who were silently reading gave me motivation to finish this. Truly, I thank you all for this.

That said, I am reminding you all: there is a fifth installment to this series, and I have just posted the first chapter to that, as well. It is entitled _Darkest Before Dawn_ , and can be found under the My Stories tab on my page (if you don't already get the alerts, haha). The first chapter is sort of prologue-esque, but I hope you will check it out, considering it will lead onto the Infinity War and how Steve and Holly respond to it, along with the others.

Also, I have posted another chapter for Down the Hall, if you want to check that out, too.

Finally, if an alert for this didn't show up in your inbox, you can always go to my Twitter (PhanProTweets) to keep on top of that.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all in the next story!


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